A  STRING  OP  AMBER  BEADS 


BY 


MARTHA  EVERTS  HOLDEN 


*'amher" 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES  H.  KERR  &  COMPANY 

1894 


Copyright   1893  by 
Chari-es  H.   Kerr  &  Company 


DEDICA  TED 

TO  THE  LATE 

MY  LITERARY  ADVL'^ER 

AND 

TRUEST  FRIEAD 


999fi7:n 


CONTENTS. 

I.    "I   Didn't  Think." 
II.    "Stay  Where  you  Are." 

III.  A  Cowardly  Mate. 

IV.  They  Carry  No  Banner. 
V.   Shut  In. 

VI.   The  Circling  Year — a  Clock. 

VII.   Something    Better    Than    Surface 
Manners. 

VIII.    Mind  Your  Own  Business. 

IX.   The   People    Who  Make     Me   Most 
Weary. 

X.    Nothing  so  Grand  as  Force. 

XI.   A  Rainy   Rhapsody. 

XII.   Cause  For  Wonder. 

XIII.  The   First   Katydid. 

XIV.  A  Plea  For  Men. 
XV.   What  I'm  Tired  of. 

XVI.   Nothing  Like  a  Good  Laugh. 
XVII.    Hold!   Enough!! 


8  CONTENTS 

XVIII.   Ripe  Opportunities. 
XIX.   A  Sunset  Cloud. 
XX.   One  Secret  of  Success. 
XXI.   A  New  Beatitude. 
XXII.   Blessed  be  Bashfulness. 

XXIII.  A  Bewitched  Violin. 

XXIV.  A  Hat  Pin   Problem. 
XXV.   Politeness  vs.    Sincerity. 

XXVI.   The   Most   Dangerous  Woman. 
XXVII.   Sermons  From  Flies, 
XXVIIt.   The  Man  who  Knows  It  All. 

XXIX.    Bald  Heads  and    Unequal  Chances. 

XXX.    Human  Straws. 
XXXI.  A  Sallow  Faced  Girl  for  Your  Pity. 
XXXII.   And  Yet  He  Clings  to  Life. 

XXXIII.  Oh!  To  Rid  The  World   of  Shams. 

XXXIV.  Dress  Parade  of  the  Great  Alike. 

XXXV.  If  God  Made  You  a    Willow  Don't 

Try  to  be  a  Pine. 

XXXVI.  Two  Types. 

XXXVII.   A  Dream  Garden. 

XXXVIIL  Anything  Worse    than  a  Blue-Jay? 
Hardly! 


CONTENTS  i) 

XXXIX.   Good  Heai/fh  a  Blessing. 

XL.   Why,   Bless    my    Soul!     It    Really 
Seems  to  Think. 
XLI.  Take  to  Drink,   of  Course! 
XLII.   A  Warning  to  Girls. 
XLIII.   A  Frog  May  do  What  a    Man  May 

Not. 
XLIV.   Thanking  God  For  a  Good  Husband. 

XLV.   Just  a  Little  Tired! 
XLVI.   Painting  the  Old  Homestead. 
XLVII.   The  Old  Sliting  Room  Stove. 
XLVI II.   A  Talk  Aisout  Divorce. 

XLIX.   Gone     Back       to    Flippitv-Floppity 
Skirts. 
L.    I  Shall  Mkel  Him  Some  Day. 
LI.   A   Mannish   Woman, 
LI  I.   The  Only  Way  to    Conquer  a  Hard 
Destiny. 

LIII.   The   "Smart"   Person. 
LIV.   A  Pretty  Street  Incident. 
LV.   Policy    a     Damascus     Blade,     Not  a 
Club. 
LVI.   The  Constant  Years  Bring    Age    to 
All. 


10  CONTENTS 

LVII.   Did     vou     Ever     Read    the     "Little 
Pilgrim." 

LVIII.  Eating  Milk  Toast  With  a  Spoon! 

LIX.  Boys,  You  Know  I  Like  You. 

LX.  What  to  do  With  Growlers. 

LXL  God  Bless  'Em! 

LXII.  "Unto  one  of  the  Least  of  These." 

LXIII.  Taking   Inventory. 

LXIV.  Don't  Marry  Him  to  Save  Him. 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS 


I. 


"I  didn't  think!"  A  woman  flings  the  white- 
ness of  her  reputation  in  the  dust,  and,  waking 
to  the  realization  of  her  loss  when  the  cruel 
glare  of  the  world's  disapproval  reveals  it,  she 
seeks  to  plead  her  thoughtlessness  as  an  entreaty 
of  the  world's  pardon.  But  the  flint-hearted 
world  is  slow  to  grant  it,  if  she  be  a  woman. 
"You  have  thrown  your  rose  in  the  dust,  go  live 
there  with  it,"  the  world  cries,  and  there  is  no 
appeal,  although  the  dust  become  the  grave  of 
all  that  is  bright  anil  lovely  and  sweet  in  a 
thoughtless  woman's  really  innocent  life.  A  young 
girl  flirts  with  a  stranger  on  the  street.  The 
result  is  something  disagreeable,  and  straight- 
way comes  the  excuse:  "Why,  I  didn't  think!  I 
meant  no  harm;  I  just  wanted  to  have  a  little 
fun."     Now,  look  me  straight  in  the    eye,  young 

gossamer-head,    while  I    tell    you  what    I    knoiu. 

11 


12  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

The  girl  who  will  flirt  with  strange  men  in  pub- 
lic places,  however  harmless  and  innocent  it  may 
appear,  places  herself  in  that  man's  estimation 
upon  a  level  with  the  most  abandoned  of  her 
sex  and  courts  the  same  regard.  Strong  lan- 
guage, perhaps  you  think,  but  I  tell  you  it  is 
gospel  truth,  and  I  feel  like  going  into  orders 
and  preaching  from  a  pulpit  whenever  I  see  a 
thoughtless,  gay  and  giddy  girl  tiptoeing  her 
way  upon  the  road  that  leads  direct  to  destruc- 
tion. The  boat  that  dances  like  a  feather  on  the 
current  a  mile  above  Niagara's  plunge  is  just  as 
much  lost  as  when  it  enters  the  swirling,  swing- 
ing wrath  of  waters,  unless  some  strong  hand 
head  it  up  stream  and  out  of  danger.  A  flirta- 
tion to-day  is  a  ripple  merely,  but  to-morrow  it 
will  be  a  breaker,  and  then  a  whirlpool,  and 
after  that  comes  hopeless  loss  of  character. 
Girls,  I  have  seen  you  gather  up  your  roses  from 
their  vases  at  night  and  fold  them  away  in  damp 
paper  to  protect  their  loveliness  for  another  day. 
I  have  seen  you  pluck  the  jewels  like  sun  spark- 
les from  your  fingers  and  your  ears,  and  lay  them 
in  velvet  caskets  which  you  locked  with  a  silver 
key  for  safe  keeping.   You  do  all  this  for    flowers 


A  STRING  OF  RE/IDS  13 

which  a  thousand  suns  shall  duplicate  in  beauty, 
and  for  jewels  for  which  a  handful  of  dollars 
can  reimburse  your  loss;  but  you  are  infinitely 
careless  with  the  delicate  rose  of  maidenliness, 
which,  once  faded,  no  summer  shining  can  ever 
woo  back  to  freshness,  and  with  the  unsullied 
jewel  of  personal  reputation  which  all  the  wealth 
of  kings  can  never  buy  back  again,  once  lost. 
See  to  it  that  you  preserve  that  modesty  and 
womanliness  without  which  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  world  is  no  better  than  a  bit  of  scentless 
lawn  in  a  milliner's  window,  as  compared  to  the 
white  rose  in  the  garden,  around  which  the  honey 
bees  gather.  See  to  it  that  you  lock  up  the  un- 
sullied splendor  of  the  jewel  of  your  reputation 
as  carefully  as  you  do  your  diamonds,  and  carry 
the  key  within  your  heart  of  hearts. 


II. 


I  received  a  letter  the  other  day  in  which  the 
writer  said:  "Amber,  I  want  to  come  to  the  city 
and  earn  my  living.  What  chance  have  I?"  And 
I  felt  like  posting  back  an  immediate  answer  and 
saying:  "Stay  where  you  are."  I  didn't  do  it, 
though,  for  I  knew  it  would  be  useless.  The 
child  is  bound  to  come,  and  come  she  will.  And 
she  will  drift  into  a  third-rate  Chicago  boarding- 
house,  than  which  if  there  is  anything  meaner — 
let  us  pray!  And  if  she  is  pretty  she  will  have 
to  carry  herself  like  snow  on  high  hills  to  avoid 
contamination.  If  she  is  confiding  and  innocent 
the  fate  of  that  highly  persecuted  heroine  of  old- 
fashioned  romance,  Clarissa  Harlowe,  is  before 
her.  If  she  is  homely  the  doors  of  opportunity 
are  firmly  closed  against  her.  If  she  is  smart 
she  will  perhaps  succeed  in  earning  enough  money 
to  pay  her  board  bill  and  have  sufficient  left  over 

to  indulge  in  the  maddening   extravagance*  of  an 

14 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  15 

occasional  paper  of  pins  or  a  ball  of  tape!  What 
if,  after  hard  labor,  and  repeated  failure,  she 
does  secure  something  like  success?  No  sooner 
will  she  do  so,  than  up  will  step  some  dapper 
youth  who  will  beckon  her  over  the  border  into 
the  land  where  troubles  just  begin.  She  won't 
know  how  to  sew,  or  bake,  or  make  good  coffee, 
for  such  arts  are  liable  to  be  overlooked  when  a 
girl  makes  a  career  for  herself,  and  so  love  will  gal- 
lop away  over  the  hills  like  a  riderless  steed,  and 
happiness  will  flare  like  a  light  in  a  windy  nigiit. 
Oh,  no,  my  little  country  maid,  stay  where  you 
are,  if  you  have  a  home  and  friends.  Be  content 
with  fishing  for  trout  in  the  brook  rather  than 
cruising  a  stormy  sea  for  whales.  A  great  city 
is  a  cruel  place  for  young  lives.  It  takes  them 
as  the  cider  press  takes  juicy  apples,  sun-kissed 
and  flavored  with  the  breath  of  the  hills,  and 
crushes  them  into  pulp.  There  is  a  spoonful  of 
juice  for  each  apple,  but  cider  is  cheap! 


III. 


I  know  a  wife  who  is  waiting,  safe  and  sound 
in  her  father's  home,  for  her  young  husband  to 
earn  the  money  single  handed  to  make  a  home  ' 
worthy  of  her  acceptance.  She  makes  me  think 
of  the  first  mate  of  a  ship  who  should  stay  on 
shore  until  the  captain  tested  the  ability  of  his 
vessel  to  weather  the  storm.  Back  to  your  ship, 
you  cowardly  one!  If  the  boat  goes  down,  go 
down  with  it,  but  do  not  count  yourself  worthy 
of  any  fair  weather  you  did  not  help  to  gain!  A 
woman  who  will  do  all  she  can  to  win  a  man's 
love  merely  for  the  profit  his  purse  is  going  to 
be  to  her,  and  will  desert  him  when  the  cash 
runs  low,  is  a  bad  woman  and  carries  a  bad  heart 
in  her  bosom.  Why,  you  are  never  really  wed- 
ded until  you  have  had  dark  days  together.  What 
earthly  purpose  would  a  cable  serve  that  never 
was  tested  by  a  weight?  Of  what  use  is  the  tie 
that  binds  wedded  hearts    together  if    like  a  fila- 

16 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  17 

ment  of  floss  it  parts  when  the  strain  is  brought 
to  bear  upon  it?  It  is  not  when  you  are  young, 
my  dear,  when  the  skies  are  blue  and  every  way- 
side weed  flaunts  a  summer  blossom,  that  the 
story  of  your  life  is  recorded.  It  is  when  "Darby 
and  Joan"  are  faded  and  wasted  and  old,  when 
povertj'  has  nipped  the  roses,  when  trouble  and 
want  and  care  have  flown  like  uncanny  birds 
over  their  heads  (but  never  yet  nested  in  their 
hearts,  thank  God),  that  the  completed  chronicle 
of  their  lives  furnishes  the  record  over  which 
heaven  smiles  or  weeps, 


IV. 


There  never  yet  was  a  grand  procession  that 
was  not  accompanied,  or,  rather,  in  great  meas- 
ure made  up  of,  followers  and  onlookers.  So  in 
this  life  parade  of  ours,  with  its  ever  varying 
pageant  and  brilliant  display,  there  are  compar- 
atively few  who  carry  banners,  who  disport  tlie 
epaulette,  and  the  gold  lace.  And  sometimes, 
we  who  help  swell  the  ranks  of  those  who  w^atch 
and  wait,  grow  discouraged,  almost  thinking  that 
life  is  a  failure  because  it  holds  no  gala-day  for 
us,  nothing  but  sober  tints  and  quiet  duties. 
What  chance  for  any  one,  and  a  woman  espec- 
ially, to  make  a  career  for  herself,  tied  down  to  a 
lot  of  precious  babies,  or  lassooed  by  ten  thousand 
galloping  cares!  As  well  expect  arose  to  blossom 
in  midwinter  hedges,  or  a  lark  to  sing  in  a  snow- 
storm, as  to  look  for  bloom  and  song  in  such  a 
life!  But  just  bend  down  your  ear  a  minute, 
poor,    tired,    overworked    and    troubled   sister,  I 

18 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  19 

have  a  special  word  for  you.  It  is  simply  im- 
possible for  circumstances  of  any  sort  to  over- 
throw the  high  spirit  of  one  who  believes  in 
something  yet  to  come  and  out  of  sight.  What 
are  poverty  and  adverse  fate  and  mocking  hopes 
and  disappointed  ambition  to  the  soul  which  is 
only  journeying  through  an  unfriendly  world  to 
a  heritage  that  cannot  fail?  A.s  well  might  a 
flower  complain  of  the  rains  that  called  it  from 
the  sod,  of  the  winds  that  rocked  it,  and  the 
cloudless  noons  that  flamed  above  it,  when  June 
at  last  has  lightly  laid  the  coronal  of  summer's 
perfect  bloom  upon  its  1)ending  bough.  We 
shall  find  our  June  somewhere,  never  fear.  Be 
content  then  a  little  longer  with  uncongenial  sur- 
roundings and  a  life  that  knows  no  outlook  of 
hope.  Be  all  the  sweeter  and  the  stronger  and 
the  braver  that  the  way  is  short.  To-morrow,  in 
the  Palace  of  Love,  the  dark  and  unfriendly  inn 
that  sheltered  us  for  a  night  upon  the  way,  shall 
be  forgotten. 


V, 


Were  you  ever  shut  in  by  a  fog?  Lost  at  mid- 
day in  a  soundless,  rayless  world  of  nebulous 
vapor — so  seemingly  alone  in  the  universe  that 
your  voice  found  no  echo,  and  your  ears  caught 
no  footfall  in  all  the  vast  domain  of  silence  about 
you?  The  other  morning,  when  I  left  the  house, 
I  paused  in  wonderment  at  the  strange  world 
into  which  I  was  about  to  plunge.  All  landmarks 
were  gone,  nothing  but  silver  and  gray  left  of 
nature's  brilliant  tints,  not  even  so  much  shadow 
as  an  artist  might  use  to  accentuate  a  bird's 
wing  in  crayon — no  heaven  above,  no  earth  be- 
neath. The  interior  of  a  raised  biscuit  could  not 
have  been  more  densely  uniform  than  the  atmos- 
phere. It  seemed  as  if  the  world  had  slipped 
its  moorings  and  drifted  off  its  course  into  com- 
panionless  space,  leaving  ma  behind,  as  an  ocean 
steamer  sometimes  leaves  a  straggler  on  an  un- 
inhabited shore.      I  felt  like  sending  forth  a  call 

20 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  21 

that  should  give  my  bearings  and  bring  back  a 
boat  to  the  rescue.  I  groped  my  way  down  the 
steps,  and,  following  an  intuition,  sought  the 
station.  Ahead  of  me  I  heard  muffled  steps,  yet 
saw  no  form.  But  suddenly  a  doorway  opened 
in  the  east  and  out  strode  the  sun.  In  the  air 
above  and  about  me,  behold,  the  wonder  of  dia- 
mond domes  and  slender  minarets  traced  in  pearl! 
The  v*?ayside  banks  were  fringed  with  crystal 
spray  of  downbeaten  weed  and  bush  that  sparkled 
like  the  billows  of  a  sunlit  sea.  The  tall  elms 
here  and  there  towered  like  the  masts  of  return- 
ing ships,  slow  sailing  from  a  wintry  voyage 
back  to  summer  lands  and  splendor.  There  was 
no  sound  in  all  the  air,  but  the  whole  universe 
seemed  singing  as  when  the  morning  stars  chor- 
used the  glory  of  God.  More  and  more  widely 
opened  that  doorway  in  the  east;  step  by  step 
advanced  the  great  magician,  and  over  all  the 
world  the  splendor  grew,  until  it  seemed  too 
much  for  mortal  eyes  to  bear,  when  lo!  a  touch 
dispelled  it  all  and  commonplace  day  stood  re- 
vealed. 


VI. 


The  circling  year  is  a  clock  whereon  nature 
writes  the  hours  in  blossoms.  First  come  the 
wind  flowers  and  the  violets;  they  denote  the 
earl}'  morning  hours  and  are  quickly  passed.  The 
forenoon  is  marked  by  lilacs,  apple  blooms  and 
roses.  The  day's  meridian  is  reached  with  lilies, 
red  carnations,  and  the  dusky  splendor  of  pan- 
sies  and  passion  flowers.  Then  come  the  languid 
poppy  and  the  prim  little  4  o'clock,  the  marigold, 
the  sweet  pea,  and  later  the  dahlia  and  the  many- 
tinted  chrysanthemum  to  mark  the  day's  decline. 
Lastly  the  goldenrod,.  the  aster  and  the  gentian, 
tell  us  it  is  evening  time,  and  night  and  frost 
are  close  at  hand.  The  rose  hour  has  struck  al- 
ready for  '93.  The  garden  beds  are  full  of  scat- 
tered petals  and  the  dusty  roadways  glimmer 
with  ghostly  blossoms  too  wan  to  be  roses,  and 
wafted  by  a  breath  into  nothingness.  With  such 
a  calendar  to  mark    the    advance    of    decay    and 

22 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  23 

death  the  seasons  differ  from  the  mortal  race 
which  substitutes  aches  and  pains  for  a  horologe 
of  flowers,  and  grows  old  by  processes  of  physical 
faflure  and  mental  blight. 


VII. 

There  are  days  when  my  heart  is  so  full  of 
love  for  young  girls  that  as  I  pass  them  on  the 
street  I  feel  myself  smiling  as  one  does  to  walk 
by  a  garden  of  daffodils.  And  when  I  see  how 
careful  some  of  them  are  to  be  circumspect  and 
demure,  I  think  to  myself  how  fine  a  thing  it 
is,  to  be  sure,  to  have  good  manners!  How 
happy  the  parent  whose  young  daughter  knows 
just  how  to  hold  her  hands  in  company,  just  how 
and  when  to  smile,  just  how  to  enter  a  room  or 
gracefully  leave  it.  Easy,  indeed,  must  lie  the 
head  of  that  mother  who  is  secure  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  her  daughter  will  never  make  a  false 
step  in  the  stately  minuet  of  etiquette,  or  strike 
a  discordant  note  in  the  festival  of  life;  that  she 
will  never  laugh  too  loud,  nor  turn  her  head  in 
the  street,  even  when  the  gay  and  glittering 
"king  of  the  cannibal  isles"  rides  by,  nor  do 
anything  odd  or    queer    or    unconventional.     To 

24 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  25 

the  mother  who  believes    that  good  manners  can 
be  taught  in  books  and  conned  in  dancing  schools, 
there  is  something    to    satisfy   the    heart's  finest 
craving  in  a  strictly  conventional  daughter,  who 
thinks  and  acts  and  speaks    by    rule,     and  whose 
life  is  like  the    life    of    an  apricot,  canned,  or  a 
music  box    wound    up    with    a    key.      But  to  my 
thinking,  my  dear,  good  manners  are  not  put  on 
and  off  like  varying   fashions,   nor    done  up    like 
sweetmeats,  pound    for    pound,  and    kept    in  the 
storeroom  for  state  occasions.      They    strike  root 
from  the  heart  out,  and  the  prettiest  manners  in 
the  world    are    only    the    blossoming    of    a  good 
heart.    Surface  manners  are  like  cut  flowers  stuck 
in  a  shallow  glass  with  just  enough  water  to  keep 
them  fresh  an  hour  or  so;    but  the    courtesy  that 
has  its  growth  in  the  heart  is  like    the    rosebush 
in  the  garden  that  no    inclement   season  can  kill, 
and  no  dark  day    force  to    forego    the   unfolding 
of  a  bud. 


VIII. 

I  am  more  and  more  convinced  the  longer  I 
live  that  the  very  best  advice  that  was  ever  given 
from  friend  to  friend  is  contained  in  those  four 
words:  "Mind  3'our  own  business."  The  follow- 
ing of  it  would  save  many  a  heartache.  Its  ob- 
servance would  insure  against  every  sort  of 
wrangling.  When  we  mind  our  own  business 
we  are  sure  of  success  in  what  we  undertake, 
and  may  count  upon  a  glorious  immunity  from 
failure.  When  the  husbandman  harvests  a  crop 
by  hanging  over  the  fence  and  watching  his 
neighbor  hoe  weeds,  it  will  be  time  for  you  and 
for  me  to  achieve  renown  in  any  undertaking  in 
which  we  do  not  exclusively  mind  our  own  bus- 
iness. If  I  had  a  family  of  young  folks  to  give 
advice  to,  my  early,  late  and  constant  admonition 
would  be  always  and  everywhere  to  "mind  their 
own  business."  Thus  should  they  woo  harmony 
and  peace,  and  live  to  enjoy  something  like  the 
completeness  of  life. 

20 


IX. 


In  the  ups  and  downs  and  hithers  and  thithers 
of  an  eventful  life  shall  I  tell  you  the  people 
who  have  made  me  the  most  weary?  It  is  not 
the  bad  people,  nor  the  foolish  people;  we  can 
get  along  with  all  such  because  of  a  streak  of 
common  humanity  in  us  all,  but  I  cannot  survive 
without  extreme  lassitude  the  decorous  people; 
those  who  slip  through  life  without  sound  or 
sparkle,  those  who  behave  themselves  upon  every 
occasion,  and  would  pass  through  a  dynamite  ex- 
plosion without  rumpling  a  hair ;  those  who 
never  have  done  anything  out  of  the  way  and 
never  will,  simply  for  the  same  reason  that  a  fisli 
cannot  perspire — no  blood  in  'em!  Cut  them  and 
they  would  run  cold  sap,  like  a  maple  tree  in 
April.  Such  people  are  always  frightened  to 
death  for  fear  of  what  the  world  is  going  to  say 
about  them.  They  are  under  everlasting  bonds 
to  keep  the  peace.      I  wonder   that  they  ever  un- 

27 


28  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

bend  to  kiss  their  children.  If  one  of  them  lived 
in  my  house  I  should  stick  pins  in  him.  Moral- 
ity and  goodness  that  lie  no  deeper  than  "behav- 
ior" are  like  the  veneering  they  put  on  cheap 
tables — very  tawdry  and  soon  peeled  off. 


X. 


Reading  about  the  superb    management   of  the 
big  fire  the  other  day,  a    certain    girl    of    my  ac 
quaintance  remarked:   "Is  there  anything  so  grand 
in  a  man  as  force?     In  my  estimation  those  fire- 
men and  the  chief  who  so    splendidly    controlled 
them  are  as  far  superior  to    the    dancing    youth, 
we  meet  at  parties  and    hops,  as    meat    is  better 
than  foam."     Put  that  into  your  pipe,  you  callow 
striplings,  who  aim  to  be  lady-killers!      It  is  not 
your  tennis  suits,  nor  your  small    feet,  nor  your 
ability  to  dance  and  lead  the  german  that  makes 
a  woman's  heart  kindle  at  your  approach.      It  is 
your  response  to  an    emergency,  your    muscle  in 
a  tilt  against  odds,    your    endurance    and    force, 
that  will  win  the    way   to    feminine    regard.      As 
for  me  there  is  something    pathetic  in    the  sight 
of  a  big,  handsome  fellow  in  dancing  pumps  and 
a  Prince  Albert  coat.      I    would    rather    see  him 
swinging    a    blacksmith's    hammer,  or  driving  a 

39 


30  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

plow  through  stony  furrows  if  need  be.  The 
"original  man"  was  not  created  to  shine  in  the 
military  schottische  or  win  his  laurels  in  the 
berlin. 


XI. 


Gently,  idly,  lazily,  as  petals  from  an  over- 
blown rose,  while  I  write,  the  welcome  rain  is 
falling.  The  sky  is  neutral  tinted,  save  in  the 
east,  where  a  faint  blush  lingers.  All  along  the 
country  roadways  a  thousand  fainting  clovers 
uplift  their  purple  crests,  and  in  the  dusky 
spaces  of  the  dense  June  woods  a  host  of  grate- 
ful leaves  wait  and  beckon.  A  voice  comes  from 
the  garden  bed;  it  is  the  complaint  of  the  pansy. 
"Here  I  lie,"  it  says,  "with  all  my  jewels  low  in 
the  dust.  Where  is  the  purple  of  my  amethysts, 
the  yellow  of  my  topaz,  the  inimitable  sheen  of 
my  milk'White  pearls?  Alas  and  alack  for  pan- 
sies  when  the  rain  beats  them  earthward!"  The 
marigold,  like  a  yellow-haired  boy  with  his  straw 
hat  well  back  from  his  flying  mane,  whistles 
softly  to  himself  for  joy,  and  buries  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  green  breeches.   The  peonies 

burn   low    their   tinted   globes    of   light,  and    the 

31 


32  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

sweet  peas  swing  like  idle  girls  upon  the  tendrils 
of  their  drooping  vines.  The  dog  lifts  his  nose 
and  sniffs  the  moist  air  approvingly;  while  poor 
Old  Tom,  che  cat,  blinks  benignly  upon  the 
scene.  In  the  poultry  yard  the  hens  pose  in  the 
same  indescribable  amaze  that  has  bewildered 
their  species  since  the  dawn  of  time.  I  think 
the  first  chicken  that  was  ever  hatched  in  Eden 
must  have  experienced  some  great  nervous  shock 
that  has  descended  along  the  infinite  line  of  its 
progeny.  The  monotonous  rooster  chants  ever 
and  anon  from  the  top  of  the  fence  his  unalter- 
able convictions.  The  ducks  waddle  waggishly 
through  the  rain  and  the  pigeons  coo  softly  the 
mellowest  melodies  that  ever  sounded  from  a 
feathered  throat. 


XII. 


I  do  not  wonder  so  much  that  so  few  people 
blossom  into  sunny  old  age,  as  I  wonder  that 
one-half  of  humanity  ever  shows  a  leaf  or  unfolds 
a  bud.  Look  at  the  idiots  who  have  children. 
Look  at  the  little  ones  thrown  into  the  street 
like  troublesome  kittens.  Look  at  the  injudi- 
cious methods  of  diet  and  training.  I  declare,  my 
dear,  if  I  were  to  go  into  the  room  where  Theo- 
dore Thomas  was  rehearsing  his  orchestra,  and 
see  the  flutists  using  their  flutes  for  hammers, 
and  the  violinists  using  their  violins  for  tennis 
rackets,  and  the  divine  old  cello  in  the  hands 
of  a  lusty  blacksmith  who  was  utilizing  it  for  an 
anvil,  the  sight  would  be  nothing  to  what  it  is 
to  see  the  muddle  we  make  of  the  children's 
sweet  lives.  God  meant  us  for  musical  instru- 
ments, and  gave  to  each  soul  its  capacity  for 
some  original  harmony.  Can  a  flute  keep  its  tone 
for  three  score  years    if  you    use  it    for  a  clothes 

33 


34  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

stick  on  wash  day,  or  a  violin  retain  intact  the 
angel  voice  within  it  if  you  let  rats  breed  and 
nest  in  it,  fling  it  against  the  side  of  the  house 
and  dance  on  it  with  hob-nailed  boots?  If  an 
instrument  subjected  to  such  usage  pipes  out  a 
silver  note  once  in  a  dozen  years,  uncover  your 
head  when  you  hear  it,  for  it  is  the  original  an- 
gel within  the  mechanism,  which  nothing  can 
kill ! 


XIII. 

The  first  katydid    of  the    season    has  whipped 

out  his    bow    and    drawn    the    preparatory    note 

across  the  strings  of  his  violin.      He    is  alone  at 

present  and  he  plays  to  an    empty  house^    but  it 

will  not  be  long  before  the  orchestra  fills  up  and 

the  music  is  in  full  blast.   The  cricket  is  getting 

ready  to  throw    aside    the    green  baize    that  has 

held  his  piccolo  so  long,  and  before    the   middle 

of  the  month  there  will   not  be  a  tuft  of  grass  nor 

a  shelter  of  low-lying  leaves  that  is  not  alive  with 

the  shrill,    complaining  sweetness  of    his  theme. 

The    goldenrod     has    lighted    the  candles    in  the 

candelabra  that    skirt    the    borders  of    the  wood, 

and  the  aster  has    already    hung   out    her   purple 

gown  and  her  yellow   laces  upon  the  bushes  that 

follow  the    windings  of   the  steep    ravine.      Only 

six  weeks  to  frost!     Only  six    weeks  to  the  time 

for  the  unbottling  of  the  year's   vintage  and  the 

exchange  of  tea  for  sparkling  wine.    Hasten  for- 

35 


36  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

ward^  then,  oh,  days  of  radiant  life  and  spark- 
ling weather!  We  are  tired  of  torrid  waves  and 
flies  J  of  snakes,  hornets  and  cyclones. 


XIV. 

A  more  or  less  extended  experience  as  a  bread- 
winner has  taught  me  a  noble  charity  for  men. 
I  used  to  think  that  all  the  head  of  a  family  was 
good  for  was  to  accumulate  riches  and  pay  bills, 
but  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  there  is  many 
a  martyr  spirit  hidden  away  beneath  the  business 
man's  suit  of  tweed.  Wife  and  daughters  stand 
ever  before  him,  like  hoppers  waiting  for  grist 
to  grind.  "Give!  Give!"  is  their  constant  cry, 
like  the  rattle  of  the  upper  and  nether  stones. 
This  panegyric  does  not  apply  to  the  man  who 
frequents  clubs  and  spends  his  money  on  be- 
tween-meal  drinks  and  lottery  tickets.  It  applies 
rather  to  the  unselfish,  hardworking  father  of  a 
family,  who  works  early  and  late  to  keep  his 
daughters  like  lilies  that  have  no  need  to  toil, 
and  to  help  maintain  the  ostentation  of  vain 
display  upon  which  depends  the  social  success 
of  a  worldly  and  frivolous  wife.     It  would  be  far 

37 


38  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

more  to  those  daughters' credit  if  they  did  some- 
thing in  the  line  of  honest  and  honorable  toil  to 
support  themselves;  rather  than  live  on  the 
heart's  blood  of  an  unselfish  and  overworked 
father;  and  as  for  the  wife  who  exacts  the  in- 
come of  a  duchess  to  keep  up  the  silly  parade 
of  Vanity  Fair,  there  may  come  a  day  for  her, 
when,  shorn  of  the  generous  and  loving  support 
of  a  good  husband,  and  forced  to  earn  her  own 
livelihood,  as  the  penniless  widows  of  bankrupt 
men  are  sometimes  forced  to  do,  she  will  appre- 
ciate, too  late,  the  blessing  that  Heaven  has 
taken  from  her. 


XV. 


I  am  tired  of  many  things.  I  am  tired  of  the 
miserable  little  god,  "worry,"  shrined  in  every 
home.  I  am  tired  of  doing  perpetual  homage 
to  the  same  black-faced  little  wretch.  I  am  tired 
of  putting  down  pride  and  curbing  a  righteous 
indignation.  I  am  tired  of  keeping  my  hands 
off  human  weeds.  I  am  tired  of  crucifying  my 
tastes,  and  cultivating  the  nickel  that  springs  per- 
ennial to  meet  my  needs.  I  am  tired  of  poverty 
and  all  needful  discipline.  I  am  tired  of  seeing 
babies  born  to  people  who  don't  know  how  to 
bring  them  up.  I  am  tired  of  folks  who  smile 
continuously.  I  am  tired  of  amiable  fools  and 
the  platitudes  of  unintelligent  saints.  I  am 
tired  of  mediocrity.  I  am  tired  of  cats,  both 
human  and  feline.  I  am  tired  of  being  a  sol- 
dier and  marching  with  the  advance  guard. 
I  am  tired  of  girls  who  giggle  and  of  boys  who 
swear.  I  am  tired  of  married  women  who  think 
it  charming  to  be  a  little  giddy,  and  of  married 
men  who  ogle  young  girls  and  other  men's  wives. 

39 


40  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

I  am  tired  of  a  world  where  love  is  like  the 
blossom  of  the  century  plant,  unfolding  only 
once  in  a  hundred  years.  I  am  tired  of  men 
who  are  worthless  and  decayed  to  the  core,  like 
blighted  peaches.  I  am  tired  of  seeing  such 
men  in  power.  I  am  tired  of  being  obliged  to 
smile  where  I  long  to  smite.  I  am  tired  of  vul- 
garity which  glides  forever  through  the  world 
like  the  snake  through  Eden.  I  am  tired  of  wo- 
men who  bear  the  hearts  of  tigers,  and  of  men 
who  roar  like  lions,  yet  show  the  valor  of  mice. 
I  am  tired  of  living  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
my  pet  antipathies.  I  am  tired  of  the  everlast- 
ing inveighing  against  capital,  when  any  idiot 
knows  that  capital  is  the  king-bolt  that  holds 
the  world  together.  I  am  tired  of  wearing  shab- 
by clothes,  and  meeting  folks  who  judge  of  a 
parcel  by  the  quality  of  wrapping  paper  it  is  in- 
cased in.  I  am  tired  of  being  well-behaved  and 
decorous  when  1  want  to  fling  stones  and  make 
faces.  I  am  tired  of  smelling  the  game  dinner 
of  my  neighbor  and  sitting  down  at  home  to 
beans  and  bacon.  I  am  tired  of  many  more 
things,  the  enumeration  of  which  would  take 
from  now  until   the  day  after  forever. 


XVI. 

Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  that  will  help  you  to  bear  the  ills  of 
life  so  well  as  a  good  laugh.  Laugh  all  you  can, 
and  the  small  imps  in  blue  who  love  to  preempt 
their  quarters  in  a  human  heart  will  scatter  away 
like  owls  before  the  music  of  flutes.  There  are 
few  of  the  minor  difficulties  and  annoyances  that 
will  not  dissipate  at  the  charge  of  the  nonsense 
brigade.  If  the  clothes  line  breaks,  if  the  cat 
tips  over  the  milk  and  the  dog  elopes  with  the 
roast,  if  the  children  fall  into  the  mud  simulta- 
neously with  the  advent  of  clean  aprons,  if  the 
new  girl  quits  in  the  middle  of  housecleaning, 
and  though  you  search  the  earth  with  candles 
you  find  none  to  take  her  place,  if  the  neighbor 
in  whom  you  have  trusted  goes  back  on  you  and 
decides  to  keep  chickens,  if  the  chariot  wheels 
of  the  uninvited  guest  draw  near  when  you  are 
out  of  provender,  and  the  gaping  of    your   empty 

41 


42  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

purse  is  like  the  unfilled  mouth  of  a  young  robin, 
take  courage  if  you  have  enough  sunshine  in 
your  heart,  to  keep  a  laugh  on  your  lips.  Before 
good  nature,  half  the  cares  of  daily  living  will 
fly  away  like  midges  before  the  wind;  try  it. 


XVII. 

The  other  evening  it  chanced  that  a  combina 
tion  of  disastrous  circumstances  wrought  havoc 
with  my  temper.  I  lost  my  train;  my  head 
hummed  like  a  bumblebee  Vv?ith  weary  pain,  and 
the  elastic  that  held  my  hat  to  its  moorings 
broke,  so  that  that  capering  compromise  between 
inanimate  matter  and  demoniac  possession  blew 
half  a  block  up  street  on  its  own  account,  and 
was  brought  back  to  me  by  a  j'outhful  son  of 
Belial,  who  took  my  very  last  quarter  as  reward 
for  the  lively  chase, 

"There's  no  use!"  said  I  to  myself  as  I  jogged 
along  through  the  gloaming;  "blessed  be  the 
woman  who  knows  enough  to  cry  'hold!'  against 
such  odds !" 

And  just  then  I  spied  a  wizened  little  mite  of  a 
woman  trotting  by,  carrying  a  gripsack  bigger 
than  herself.  She  grasped  it,  and  held  it  against 
her    wan     little    stomach,     as    a    Roman    warrior 

43 


44  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

might  carry  his  shield  into  battle — plucky  to  the 
last. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "look  here,  Amber;  have  you 
a  fifty  pound  sachel  to  tug  through  the  darkness? 
No!     Then  you  might  be  worse  off." 

And  I  went  on  a  little  farther  and  I  met  the 
brave  firemen  going  home  drenched  and^  worn 
from  the  big  fire.  "You  coward!"  said  I  to  my- 
self, "what  if  you  were  a  fireman!  Something 
to  growl  about  then,   I  guess." 

And  I  went  a  bit  farther  and  I  saw  a  little 
white  coffin  in  a  window.  "How  about  that?" 
said  I.  "If  the  darlings  were  gone  to  their  long 
home  you  might  talk  about  trouble!" 

And  a  few  moments  later  I  ran  across  an  old 
man  without  any  legs,  peddling  papers.  And  then 
I  said:  "Do  30U  call  your  life  a  grind,  madam, 
with  two  legs  to  walk  upon,  and  a  sufficient  in- 
come to  admit  of  an  occasional  fling?  What  if 
you  had  wooden  legs,  and  peddled  papers?" 

Now,  I  have  told  you  this  for  a  purpose.  How- 
ever dark  your  lot  may  be  there  are  worse  all 
around  you.  You  may  be  inclined  to  think  that 
the  bloom  and  the  brightness  have  gone  out 
of  your  life,    leaving    nothing    behind   them    but 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  45 

what  remains  of  the  carnation  when  the  frost 
finds  it — a  withered  stalk.  But  if  j^ou  will  take 
the  trouble  to  watch,  you  will  find  that  there  is 
alwaj's  something  harder  to  bear  than  your  own 
trouble,  and,  put  to  the  test,  you  wouldn't  change 
crosses  with  your  neighbor. 


XVIIL 

What  if  a  man  went  over  the  lake  to  St. 
Joe  to  visit  the  peach  orchards  at  the  ma- 
turity of  their  delicious  harvest!  The  consent 
of  the  owner  of  the  fairest  plantation  of  the 
many  has  been  gained,  let  us  imagine,  for  the 
plucking  of  the  perfect  fruit.  And  yet,  in  despite 
of  opportunity  and  privilege,  what  would  you 
think  of  one  who  came  home  with  empty  baskets 
and  an  unappeased  relish  for  ripe  peaches? 
Would  you  not  think  such  a  one  a  dullard,  or,  at 
least,  stupidly  blind  to  his  opportunities?  And 
if  you  chanced  to  hear  him  crying  over  his  empty 
basket  later  on,  would  you  not  revile  him  for  a 
lazy  fellow?  We  all  of  us,  from  day  to  day,  miss 
chances  of  far  greater  value  than  the  ripest  peach 
that  ever  mellowed  in  the  sun.  The  opportunity 
to  say  a  kind  and  encouraging  word  swings  low 
upon  the  bough  of  to-day.  Why  not  gather  it 
in?     The  chance  to  help,  to    succor,  to    protect; 

46 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  4? 

the  chance  to  lend  a  helping  hand,  to  share  a 
burden,  to  soothe  a  sorrow,  to  plant  a  loving 
thought,  or  twine  a  memory  -that  shall  blossom 
like  a  rose  upon  the  terrace  of  to-morrow,  all 
are  our  own  as  we  pass  through  the  world  on  our 
way  to  heaven.  We  may  not  come  this  way 
again.  See  to  it,  then,  that  v;e  carry  full  bas- 
kets on  the  homeward  faring. 


XIX. 

Not  long  ago  there  slowly  ascended  into  the 
evening  sky  a  pillar  of  cloud  so  vast  that  all 
measurements  sank  into  insignificance  beside  it. 
Its  color  was  of  softest  gray  just 'touched  with 
the  flush  that  deepens  the  inmost  chamber  of  a 
shell,  or  blushes  in  the  unfolded  petals  of  a 
wind  fiower.  With  majestic  yet  almost  impercep- 
tible motion  this  cloud  mounted  the  blue  back- 
ground of  the  sky.  The  spectre  of  a  faded  moon 
hung  motionless  above  it  an  instant  only,  and 
then  was  swiftly  drawn  within  its  soft  eclipse. 
Changing  from  moment  to  moment,  the  great 
mass  took  on  all  semblances  of  vivid  fan- 
cy, until  the  evening  sky  seemed  the  arena 
of  dreamland's  cohorts.  With  indescribable 
grace  and  with  the  delicate  lightness  of  a  fairy 
footfall  the  mighty  visitant  advanced  and  took 
possession  of  the  heavenly  field.  Suddenly  the 
full  glory  of  the  setting  sun  smote   it  from  outer 

48 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  49 

rim  to  base.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell 
the  story  the  cloud  was  dissipated  in  a  spray  of 
feathery  light.  It  drifted  like  a  wreath  before 
the  wind  and  lost  itself  in  the  illimitable  spaces 
of  the  air,  as  dust  in  the  splendor  of  a  summer 
day.  It  broke  upon  the  hills  in  a  shower  of 
flame  and  dissolved  above  the  still  waters  of  the 
lake  in  tremulous  flakes  of  light.  The  sight  was 
worth  going  far  to  see,  and  yet  I  am  willing  to 
wager  my  to-morrow's  dinner  that  not  one-fiftieth 
of  the  folks  for  whom  I  write,  saw  it,  or  would 
have  left  their  supper  to  watch  the  glorious  spec- 
tacle. 


XX. 


There  is  just  one  thing    nowadays    that    never 
fails  to  bring  success,  and  that  is  assurance.      If 
you  are  going  to  make  yourself   known,  it    is  no 
longer  the  thing  to    quietly  hand    out  your    card 
and  a  modest  credential;  you  must  advance  with 
a  trumpet  and  blow  a  brazen    blast  to  shake  the 
stars.      The  time  has  gone  by  when  self-advance- 
ment can  be  gained  by   modest    and    unassuming 
methods.     To  stand  with    lifted    hat  and    solicit 
a  hearing  savors  of  an  all  too  humble  spirit.   The 
easily  abashed  may  starve  in  a  garret,    or  go  die 
on  the  highways.     There  is  no    chance  for    them 
in  the  jostle  of  life.     The  gilded    circus  chariot, 
with  a  full  brass  band  and  a  plump  goddess  dis- 
tributing posters,  is  what  takes  the  popular  heart 
by  storm.      Your  silent  entry  into  town,  depend- 
ing upon  the  merits  of  your  wares  to    work  up  a 
trade,  is  chimerical  and  obsolete.   We  no    longer 
sit  in  the  shadow  and  play  flutes  ;  we    parade  in 

50 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  51 

a  sawdust  ring  and  play  on  trombones,  or  take 
our  place  on  a  raised  platform  and  beat  the 
bass  drum,  and  in  that  way  we  draw  a  crowd 
and  gather  in  the  coppers,  and  that  is  what  we 
live  for,  isn't  it? 


XXI. 

There  should  be  a  new  beatitude,  and  it  should 
read,  "Blessed  is  the  man  who  hath  the  courage 
of  his  convictions."  It  should  apply  to  poor, 
long-suffering  women  as  well.  We  have  plenty 
of  the  sort  of  courage  that  will  lead  a  man  to 
step  in  front  of  a  runaway  horse,  or  dash  into  a 
burning  house,  or  throw  himself  off  a  dock  to 
rescue  a  perishing  wretch,  but  there  is  a  dearth 
of  the  kind  of  bravery  that  will  enable  either 
man  or  woman  to  face  a  laugh  in  defense  of 
a  principle,  or  succor  a  losing  cause  despite 
a  sneer.  How  the  best  of  us  will  retreat  trail- 
ing our  banner  in  the  dust,  when  the  hot  shot 
of  ridicule  confronts  us  from  the  enemy's  camp, 
or  when  some  merry  sentinel  challenges  us  with 
the  opprobrious  epithet,  "crank."  Why,  I  be- 
lieve there  is  hardly  a  man  or  woman  to-day  who 
would  have  the  courage  to  march  up  to  a  half- 
grown   boy    and    knock  the    cigarette  out    of  his 

52 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  53 

mouth,  or  tackle  the  omnipresent,  from  ever- 
lasting to  everlasting  expectorator  and  buffet 
him  into  decency,  or  drive  the  "nose-bag"  and 
the  "head-check"  fiend  at  the  point  of  an  um- 
brella from  all  future  molestation  of  the  noble 
horse  he  persecutes!  We  all  believe  in  the  ex- 
termination of  public  nuisances,  but  we  have  not 
the  courage  of  our  convictions  to  enable  us  to 
fight  the  fight  of  the  just  to  overthrow  the  ram- 
pancy  of  the  evil  doer. 


XXII. 

Like  the  presence  of  a  fresh  clover  in  a  mead- 
ow of  sun- scorched  grasses,  or  the  sound  of  a 
singing  lark  in  a  council  of  crows,  is  the  sight  of 
a  bashful  child.  In  this  age  of  juvenile  precocity 
and  pinafore  wisdom  I  would  rather  run  across 
a  downright  timid  boy  or  girl  than  drink  Arctic 
soda  in  dog  days.  Never  be  distressed,  then, 
when  "Johnnie"  hangs  his  head  and  blushes  like 
a  girl,  or  when  his  little  sister  stands  on  one 
foot  and  farly  writhes  with  embarrassment  in  the 
presence  of  strangers.  Count  it  rather  the  very 
crown  of  joy  that  you  are  the  parent  of  a  fresh 
and  innocent  child,  rather  than  the  superfluous 
attendant  of  a  blas^  infant,  who  discounts  a 
circus  herald  in  "cheek"  and  outdistances  a 
drummer  in  politic  address  and  unabashed 
effrontery.  If  I  had  my  way  I  would  put 
half  the    little    mannikins    and  pattern     dolls  of 

our  latter  day  nurseries  into    a    big   corn-popper 

54 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  55 

and  see  if  I  couldn't  evolve  something  sweeter 
and  more  wholesome  out  of  the  hard,  round, 
compact  little  kernels  of  their  present  individ- 
uality. I  would  utterly  do  away  with  children's 
parties  and  "butterfly  balls"  and  kirmess  dissipa- 
tions. There  should  be  a  new  deal  of  bread  and 
milk  all  around.  Every  boy  in  the  land  should 
go  to  bed  at  sundown,  and  every  girl  should 
wear  a  sunbonnet.  There  should  be  no  carrying 
of  canes,  or  eating  of  candy,  or  wearing  of  jewel- 
ry, or  talking  of  beaux,  and  I  would  dig  up  from 
the  grave  of  the  long  ago  the  quaint  old  custom 
of  courtesying  to  strangers,  of  keeping  silent 
until  spoken  to,  and  of  universal  respect  for  the 
aged.  This  world  would  brighten  up  like  a  rose 
garden  after  a  shower  with  the  presence  of  so 
many  modest  liitle  girls  and  bashful  boys  of  the 
good  old-fashioned  sort. 


XXIII. 

I  went  to  the  Auditorium  the  other  night  to 
hear  somebody  play  on  the  violin.  But  that  was 
not  a  violin  which  the  slender,  dark  eyed  per- 
former used,  and  the  music  that  so  charmed  me 
was  not  drawn  from  strings  and  flashed  forth  by 
any  ordinary  bow.  The  heavenly  notes  to  which 
I  listened  were  like  those  that  young  leaves  give 
forth  when  May  winds  find  them,  or  that  ripples 
make,  drawn  softly  over  pebbly  beaches.  And 
when  they  died  away  and  floated  like  a  whisper 
through  the  hushed  house,  it  was  no  longer  mu- 
sic; it  was  a  great  golden-jacketed  l^ee  settling 
sleepily  into  the  heart  of  a  rose ;  it  was  the 
chime  of  a  vesper-bell  broken  in  mellow  cadences 
between  vine-clad  hills;  it  was  a  something  that 
had  no  form  nor  shape,  nor  semblance  to  any 
earthly  thing,  yet  floated  midway  between  the 
earth  and  sky,  light  as  the  frailest  flower  of 
snow  the  north  wind  ever  cradled,  substanceless 
as  smoke  or  wind-followed  mist. 


XXIV. 

I  overJieard  the  following  conversation  the 
other  day  in  a  popular  refectory: 

"Do  your  children  mind  you?" 

"I  guess  not;  they  never  pay  an}'  more  atten- 
tion to  me  tlian  if  I  was  a  dummy.  It  takes 
their  father  to  bring  them   to  terms  every  time!" 

"I  am  so  glad  to  hear  it.  I  like  to  know  that 
somebody  else  besides  me  has  a  hard  time  with 
their  children.  I  declare  the  only  way  I  can 
get  baby  to  mind  already  is  to  jab  him  with  a 
hat-pin !" 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more.  With  sad  precipi- 
tation I  gathered  up  my  check  and  fled.  Had  I 
waited  another  minute  1  should  have  said  to  that 
mother:  "Madam,  I  will  give  you  a  problem  to 
solve.  If,  at  the  age  of  three,  a  child  needs  the 
impetus  of  one  hat-pin  to  make  him  obey,  how 
many  meat-axes  will  it  require  to  keep  him  in 
order  at  the  age  of  ten?     And    if   you  are   such  a 

57 


58  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

poor  miserable  failure  as  a  mother  and  a  woman 
now,  just  at  the  commencement  of  an  immortal 
destiny,  what  have  the  eternities  in  store  for 
you? 

Why,  oh,  why  are  children  sent  to  people 
who  have  no  more  idea  about  bringing  them  up 
than  a  trout  has  about  training  hop-vines?  It 
is  a  question  that  has  given  and  does  give  me 
much  uneasiness. 


XXV. 

You  imagine  it  is  not  polite  to  be  plain 
spoken!  My  dear,  there  are  times  when  to  be 
merely  "polite"  is  to  be  a  toady!  There 
are  times  when  politeness  is  a  pillow  of  hen 
feathers,  wherewith  to  smother  honor  and  strangle 
truth.  If  all  you  care  for  is  to  be  popular,  to  go 
through  life  like  a  molasses-drop  in  a  child's 
mouth,  why,  then,  choose  your  way  and  live  up 
to  it,  but  dont  expect  to  rank  higher  than  mo- 
lasses, and  cheap  molasses  at  that.  For  my  part 
I  would  rather  be  outspoken  in  the  cause  ol 
right,  even  if  plain  speech  did  offend,  than  be 
a  coward  and  a  woolly  mouth.  Somebody  once 
lived  upon  earth,  the  example  of  whose  thirty  odd 
years  of  mortal  environment  we  are  taught  to 
pattern  our  own  lives  close  upon.  How  about 
his  politeness  when  he  talked  with  the  hypocrites 
and  rebuked  the  pharisees?  How  about  his  pol- 
icy when  he  drove  the    money-changers    before  a 

59 


60  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

stinging  whip,  and  championed  the  cause  of  the 
sinful  woman?  Oh!  I  tell  you,  the  soul  that  is 
always  looking  out  for  the  chance  to  score  one 
for  the  winning  cause,  and  throw  up  its  hat  with 
the  crowd  that  makes  the  most  noise,  is  poor 
stock  to  invest  in.  In  the  time  of  need  such  a 
friend  would  turn  out  worse  than  a  real  estate 
investment  in  a  Calumet  swamp. 


XXVI. 

Shall  I  tell  you  plainly,  and  without  any  minc- 
ing, what  type  of  woman  I  think  the  most  dan- 
gerous? It  is  not  the  virago,  the  wounds  of  a 
sharp  tongue  are  hard  enough  to  bear,  but  there 
is  a  balm  for  them.  Mother  may  be  overworked, 
or  sister  may  be  fretted;  something  is  the  matter 
with  the  digestion,  often,  when  the  one  we  love 
scolds  and  is  excessively  disagreeable  in  manner 
and  speech.  The  harshest  word  is  soon  excused 
and  overlooked  by  the  smile  and  the  caress  that 
are  sure  to  follow.  So,  bad  as  a  scolding,  nag- 
ging tongue  may  be,  it  has  its  alleviations,  and 
somewhere  there  is  an  excuse  made  to  fit  it. 
But  what  palliation  ie  there  for  the  offense  of 
the  woman  who  seeks  by  blandishments  and  ar- 
tifices of  the  evil  one's  own  concoction  to  steal 
the  affection  of  a  man  away  from  his  wife?  There 
are  more  such  people  in.  the  world  than  you  can 

61 


02  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

imagine  (and  the  evil  is  not  confined  to  the  one 
sex  either.)  An  intriguing  woman  (or  man)  who 
steals  into  a  happy  home  and  seeks  to  undermine 
it,  deserves  to  be  stoned  on  the  highway.  She 
may  steal  your  purse,  your  diamonds,  or  your 
checkbook,  and,  while  love  reigns  on  its  rightful 
throne,  the  home  will  be  happy;  but  let  her 
seek  to  discrown  love,  and  entertain  a  clandestine 
passion  in  its  place,  and  the  foundation  of  the 
stoutest  home  that  was  ever  founded  on  the  rocks 
Ci  time  will  tumble  in  ruin  about  her  ears. 
Avoid  the  intriguing,  fascinating,  dangerous, 
designing  woman,  then,  who  recognizes  no  sanc- 
tity in  wedded  honor,  and  by  her  wiles  and 
witcheries  lets  in  a  thousand  devils  fo  the  heart 
and  home  she  curses  with  her  presence. 


XXVII. 

I  chanced  to  stand  the  other  day  in  a  stuffy 
little  room,  the  only  window  of  which  was  shaded 
by  a  ground  glass  light.  Before  the  gray  void 
of  this  cheerless  window  a  few  flies  darted  hither 
and  thither  in  consequential  flurry,  while  I  my- 
self, for  the  time  being  a  most  blue  and  down- 
cast mortal,  was  battling  with  the  thought  that 
life,  after  all,  was  hardly  worth  the  living,  and 
the  outlook  for  anything  better  in  a  dim  and  un- 
certain future,  too  dubious  to  be  entertained. 
But  all  at  once  my  vision  seemed  to  pierce  the 
shaded  pane  that  intervened  between  me  and  the 
great,  rushing,  riotous  world,  and  such  a  con- 
ception of  all  that  lay  the  other  side  the  ground 
glass  window  overflowed  my  soul,  that  I  felt  re- 
buked as  by  an    audible    voice. 

"You  and  the  flies  that  bunt  their  uncomprehend- 
ing heads  against  the  closed  window  are  exactly 
alike!"  something  seemed  to  say.     "Because  you 

63 


04  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

cannot  see  what  lies  outside  the  limits  of  this 
unlovely  place,  you  are  ready  to  believe  that  this 
little  span,  this  wretched  inclosure  between  grimy 
walls  and  behind  a  darkened  outlook,  is  all  there 
is  of  life.  The  flies  are  excusable,  but  you  are 
beneath  the  plummet  of  contempt.  You  know 
3'ou  are  confined  here  but  for  a  moment,  and 
that  beyond  that  pane  of  opaque  light  lies  a 
universe  so  vast  that  only  divine  thought  can 
compass  it;  you'know  that  uncounted  millions 
of  worlds  are  flashing  through  limitless  space, 
and  that  the  sweep  of  unhindered  and  unob- 
structed life  is  grand  and  full  and  free,  and  yet 
you  are  plunged  in  doubt,  because  there  chances 
to  be  a  shade  of  ground  glass  between  your  soul 
and  God !  When  the  strong  touch  of  death  has 
shattered  that  paltry  obstruction,  how  ashamed 
you  will  be  of  all  your  doubt  and  unfaith. " 


XXVIII. 

There  is  a  type  of  humanity  we  all  encounter 
from  day  to  day,  at  whose  funeral  I  shall  carry  a 
banner  and  beat  a  tom-tom.  He  is  the  man  who 
knows  it  all.  In  his  grave,  human  forethought, 
and  general  knowledge,  and  mortal  perfection  and 
everything  worth  knowing,  shall  one  day  lie  down 
and  die.  He  never  makes  mistakes,  nor  loses 
his  temper,  nor  gets  the  worst  of  an  argument, 
nor  is  worsted  in  a  bargain.  He  never  acts  on 
impulse,  nor  jumps  without  looking,  nor  com- 
mits himself  rashly,  nor  loses  the  wind  out  of  his 
sails.  He  is  so  overwhelmingly  superior  (some- 
times he  is  a  woman!)  that  in  his  presence  you 
are  a  child  of  wrath,  a  hopeless  imbecile,  and 
a  black  sheep  all  in  one,  and  yet — how  you  hate 
him  and  how  you  long  to  see  some  brave  young 
David  come  along  and  hit  him  with  a  sling 
shot !  Such  a  man  as  he,  is  fitted  to  bring  the 
average  human  to  the  dust  as  quickly  and 
as   surely  as  a  well  aimed  bullet    brings  down  a 

wild  duck. 

65 


XXIX. 

What  a    superior    chance  a    man    has    in    this 

world  over  a  woman!     In   the  matter  of  physical 

attributes  alone  his    innings  are    as  far  ahead    of 

hers  as  the    man    who    carries    the    banner    in  a 

fourth  of  July  procession    is    ahead  of  the  little 

boy  who  tugs  along    behind    with  the    lemonade 

pail.    The  other  evening  I    attended    the  theatre, 

and  casting  my  eye  over  the    audience     between 

acts,   I  beheld  no  less  than  a  score  of  bald-headed 

men.      They  were  composed,  and  even    cheerful, 

under  an  infliction    that    would    have    ostracized 

a  woman.      Imagine  a  man  taking  a    bald-headed 

woman  to  see  the  "Railroad  of  Love!"      Imagine 

a  bald-headed  girl  with  a  fat,  red  neck  and  white 

eyelashes  being    in    eager    demand    for    parties, 

coaching    jubilees    or    private    suppers.        There 

never  was  a  man  so  homely,  so  halt,  so  deficient 

in  beauty  or  brain  that    he  could  not    get  a  wife 

when  he  wanted,  but  the    candidates  for   the  po- 

66 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  6'/ 

sit  ion  of  mistress  of  any  man's  household  must 
be  pretty,  graceful  and  sweet.  The  chances  are 
uneven,  my  dear,  but  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it? 


XXX. 

There  is  not  much  credit  in  being  jolly  when 
the  joints  of  life  are  well  oiled  and  events  move 
as  smoothly  as  feathers  drawn  through  cream. 
The  glory  lies  in  maintaining  your  serenity  under 
adverse  circumstances;  in  emulating  Mark  Tap- 
ley,  and  being  jolly  when  there  is  not  a  hand's 
breadth  of  blue  in  all  the  heavens.  There  are 
straws  laid  upon  us  every  day,  which,  if  they  do 
not  break  our  backs,  at  least  go  far  to  loosen  the 
vertebrae  of  our  temper.  One  of  these  straws 
is  the  man  who  expectorates  in  public  places. 
What  shall  I  do  with  that  man?  I  cannot  kill 
him,  because  there  is  a  law  against  the  violent 
removal  of  even  a  human  straw.  To  be  sure, 
he  is  the  most  insignificant  straw  that  the  wind 
of  destiny  blows  across  the  waste  of  life.  He 
never  will  mature  a  head  of  wheat  though  you 
give  him  eleven  eternities  to  do  it  in.  But  he 
serves  his  purpose,  and  breaks  the  back  of  tolera- 
tion. 

68 


XXXI. 

On  the  opposite    corner    sits  a  half-grown  girl 
peddling  apples.      She    polishes  the    fruit    occa- 
sionally with  a  rag  that    she    carries    about    her 
person  (let  us  humbly  hope    it  is  not    her  hand- 
kerchief!)  and  now  and  then  breaks  into  a  double 
shuffle  to  dissipate  the  chill  that  invades  her  ill- 
clothed  frame.      What  taste   of  joy    do  you    sup- 
pose that  child  ever  got  out  of    the    pewter    cup 
the  fates  pour  for  her?     Does  she  ever   find  time 
to  run  about    with    other    children,  playing    the 
games  which  the    generations    hand    down    from 
one  to  the  other?  Does    she    ever   play  "tag,"   or 
"gray  wolf,"  or  "I  spy?"     Does    she  ever    swing 
in  a  hammock  like  other  girls  when  the  days  are 
long  and  blithe  and  sweet,  as  free    from    care  as 
a  cloud  or  a  butterfly?     Does   life    hold    for  her 
one  sparkle  in  its  poor   cup    of  wine,  one  flavor 
that  is  not  sordid  and  low  and    mean?     You  say 

it    is  eas}'    to    sit    here   all    day    selling    apples, 

C9 


70  A  STRING  OF  BE/IDS 

and  wonder  why  I  hold  this  sallow-faced  girl  up 
for  special  pity.  To  be  sure  there  is  no  hardship 
in  the  part  of  her  life  visible  to  us.  But  in  her 
dull  soul  lurks  constantly  the  shadow  of  an  ever 
present  fear.  The  poor  child  is  accountable  to 
a  cruel  master,  whether  father  or  mother  it  mat- 
ters little,  who  beats  her  each  night  that  she 
returns  to  her  wretched  home  with  a  scanty 
showing  of  nickels;  and  the  consciousness  of 
dull  times  and  slow  sales  keeps  her  in  a 
state  of  trepidation,  which  in  you  or  me,  my 
dear,  would  soon  lapse  into  "nervous  pros- 
tration," a  big  doctor's  fee,  and  a  change  of 
air.  Yet  mark  my  words,  if  the  dark-browed 
liberator  of  sorrow's  captives  were  to  proffer  my 
little  fruit  peddler  the  exchange  of  death  for  all 
this  wearing  apprehension  and  constant  toil,  do 
you  think  she  would  accept  the  transfer?  Not 
she,  The  "captain"  out  snow-balling  to-day  in 
her  love-guarded  home,  with  never  a  fear  to  shadow 
her  sunny  eyes,  nor  a  big  sorrow  to  start  the 
showery  tears,  would  not  plead  harder  for  the 
boon  of  longer  living. 


XXXII. 

As  I  sit  here  by  my  window  I  am  reminded 
that  this  is  a  queer  world  and  queer  be  the  mor- 
tals that  pass  through  it.  There  is  that  wreck 
of  a  man  over  yonder  squeezing  a  bit  of  weird 
melody  out  of  an  old  accordion  and  expecting 
the  tortured  public  to  throw  a  penny  into  his  hat 
now  and  then  to  pay  liim  for  his  trouble.  Do 
you  suppose  that  man  knows  what  happiness 
means,  as  God  designed  it.  He  was,  without 
doubt,  a  sad  and  grimy  little  baby  once,  brought 
up  on  gin  slightly  adulterated  with  his  mother's 
milk.  He  was  pounded  daily  before  he  was  two 
years  old,  starved  and  cuffed  and  kicked  all  the 
way  up  to  manhood,  and  now  his  neck  is  so  com- 
pletely under  the  heel  of  hydra-headed  disaster, 
wickedness  and  want,  that  all  he  can  find  to  do 
in  this  big  and  busy  world  is  to  sit  on  the  side- 
walk and  lacerate  the  public  ear  with  those  dread- 
ful discords.      And    yet,  if  death  were  to  step  up 

71 


72  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

to  that  beggar's  side  and  offer  him  release,  in- 
stant and  sure,  in  the  form  of  a  falling  brick  or 
a  horse  running  amuck  on  the  crowded  sidewalk, 
he  would  cling  to  the  miserable  shred  he  calls 
life  as  eagerly  as  though  he  were  the  crown 
prince  himself,  with  the  heritage  of  his  kingdom 
yet  unwon. 


XXXIII. 

If  you  go  to  a  florist  and  ask  for  a  sweet  pink 
root,  you  may  get  fooled  on  the  label,  but  when 
blooming    time   comes    round    there    will    be    no 
difficulty  in  deciding  whether  the  flower  you  took 
on  trust  was  pink  or  onion.      Plant  a  seed  in  the 
horticultural  kingdom    by    any  name  you    please, 
there  will    be    no    mistake    possible  when    June 
comes.      A    carrot    is    bound     to    yield     carrots, 
and  a  rose  will  repeat  the  bright    wonder    of    its 
beauty  throughout  the  dreamy    summer    days,  in 
spite  of    any    other    name    the    florist    may  have 
blundered  upon    in    the    labeling.      Not    so  with 
humanity.      There    are  souls    that    pass    through 
life  with  the  label  of  lily,  balm    or    heart's-ease 
tagged  to  them,  when  they  are  nothing  better  than 
wild  onion  at  heart.      There    are    lives   sown    in 
out  of  the  way  places,  and  carelessly    passed    by 
as  weeds,  whose  blossom    angels    might  stoop  to 
wear  in  the  whiteness  of  their  own  pure  breasts. 

73 


74  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

Oh,  to  rid  the  world  of  its  shams!  To  sweep 
away  the  "Chad bands"  with  a  feather  duster,  as 
the  new  girl  removes  dust;  to  open  the  windows 
and  shoo  away  the  traitors  as  one  drives  flies; 
to  hoe  out  society  plats  as  one  hoes  garden  beds, 
and  thin  out  the  flaunting  weeds  so  that  the 
lilies  may  find  room  to  grow;  to  turn  the  strong 
light  of  discerning  truth  upon  hypocrites  until, 
as  the  microscope  changes  a  globule  of  dew  into 
the  abode  of  10,000  wriggling  abominations,  so 
the  deceitful  heart  shall  stand  revealed  for  what 
it  actually  is,  rather  than  for  what  it  seems  to 
be. 


XXXIV. 

I  am  tired  of  the  endless  dress  parade  of 
the  "Great  Alike."  1  am  weary  of  walking  in 
line,  like  convicts  in  stripes.  I  glory  in  cranks 
who  serve  their  own  individuality  and  are  in 
bondage  to  nobody.  The  onward  sweep  of  prog- 
ress in  this  age  has  opened  up  the  way  for  non- 
conformists. It  is  not  a  matter  of  heresy,  now- 
adays, to  think  for  yourself,  dress  for  yourself, 
and  be  yourself.  I  confess  that  I  have  no  heart 
pinings  for  such  nonconformists  as  Dr.  Mary 
Walker  or  any  other  individual  who  believes  that 
eccentricity,  serving  no  purpose  but  to  make  one 
conspicuous,  is  interesting.  There  are  certain 
general  rules  of  conduct  that  must  be  observed 
or  the  world  would  go  to  wreck  like  a  wild  freight 
train.  It  would  be  embarrassing  to  all  concerned 
were  I  to  decline  to  conform  to  the  conventional 
custom  of  wearing  shoes  and  bonnets,  but  when 
fashion  ordains  French  heels    and  dead  birds,  if 

75 


76  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

I  decline  to  walk  in  file  with  the  conformist,  I 
am  something  of  a  hero,  perhaps,  and  certainly 
preserve  my  own  self-respect  better  than  if  I 
yielded  to  either  a  harmful  or  a  cruel  custom. 
When  etiquette  rules  that  I  go  through  the 
world  armed  with  a  haughty  reserve,  like  a  picket 
soldier  with  a  shotgun,  if  I  conform  to  that  rule, 
I  act  upon  the  warm  impulses  of  natural  living 
as  the  refrigerator  acts  upon  meat;  I  may  pre- 
serve the  proprieties,  but  I  chili  the  juices. 


XXXV. 

1  wish  I    could    spend  a    fortnight    in  a  world 
where  folks  dared  to  be  true  to  themselves;  where 
the  conformist  was  shelved    with  last  year's  cal- 
endars, and  a  man  studied  out   his  own    route  to 
heaven  and    had    the    courage    to    walk  in  it.      I 
would  like    to    dwell  with    individuals    and    not 
with  packs  of  human    cards  shuffled    together  in 
sets.      I  would  like  to    feel   my    soul    kindle  into 
respect  for  distinct  personalities,   each  one  mak- 
ing  his    garment    after    his    own     measurement, 
and  not  trying  to  fit  his    coat    after    the    cut     of 
his    neighbor's     jacket.       I     would    like    to    live 
for  a  while  with    men    and    women,    rather    than 
with  human  sheep    blindly    following    a    leader. 
Life  is  something  better  than  a    sheep-path  aim- 
lessly skirting  the  hills.      It  is  a    growth  upward 
through  the  infinite  blue  into  heaven.      It  is  the 
spreading  of  many  and  various  branches.    If  you 

are  a  willow,  don't  attempt    to   be  a  pine,  and  if 

77 


78  ^  STRING  OF  BEADS 

the  Lord  made  you  to  grow  like  an  elm  don't 
pattern  yourself  after  a  scrub  oak.  The  rebuke 
"what  will  people  say?"  should  never  be  applied 
to  the  waywardness  of  a  child.  Teach  it  rather 
to  ask:  "How  will  my  own  self-respect  stand  this 
test?"  Such  training  will  evolve  something  rarer 
in  the  way  of  development  than  a  candle-mold 
or  a  yard-stick. 


XXXVI. 

How  full  the  streets  are,  to  be  sure!  Where 
do  all  the  folks  come  from  and  where  do  they 
stop?  Surely  there  are  not  roofs  enough  to  cover 
the  steady  stream  of  humanity  that  courses 
through  the  thoroughfares  from  dawn  to  night 
time.  To  one  who  walks  much  to  and  fro  in  the 
town  there  comes  a  rare  chance  to  study  human 
types.  Books  hold  nothing  within  their  covers 
so  grotesque  and  so  pathetic,  so  inexplicable  and 
so  queer  as  the  folks  that  jostle  one  another  on 
the  streets!  There  is  the  precise  female  who  nips 
along  in  a  little  apologetic  way,  as  though  there 
was  an  impropriety  in  the  very  act  of  locomo- 
tion for  which  she  would  fain  atone.  From 
the  crown  of  her  head  to  her  boot  tips  she  is 
proper,  stupid  and  decorous,  but  too  much  of 
her  company  would  prove  to  endurance  what 
sultry  weather  proves  to  cream.     In  fact,  I  think 

if  I  were  told  I    had    to    live    with    some  of    the 

79 


80  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

women  I  meet  on  the  streets,  I  would  fall  on 
my  hat  pin,  as  the  old  Romans  did  upon  their 
swords,  as  the  pleasanter  alternative.  There  is 
nothing  more  charming  than  a  bright  woman, 
but  she  must  be  superior  to  her  own  environ- 
ments and  be  able  to  talk  and  think  about  other 
things  than  a  correct  code  of  etiquette,  her  cos- 
tumes and  her  domestic  concerns. 

There  is  a  man  I  sometimes  encounter  on  the 
street  between  whom  and  myself  there  looms  a 
day  of  bitter  reckoning.  He  wears  rubbers  if  the 
day  is  at  all  moist,  and  next  to  ear  muffs,  galoshes 
on  an  able  bodied  man  goad  me  to  fury.  If  the 
Lord  made  you  a  man,  be  a  man  and  not  a  molly- 
coddle. Soup  without  meat,  bread  without  salt, 
pie-crust  without  a  filling,  slack-baked  dough, 
all  these  are  prototypes  of  the  man  without  en- 
durance or  sufficient  stamina  to  stand  getting  his 
delicate  feet  dashed  with  dew,  or  his  shell-like 
ears  nipped  by  frost. 


XXXVII. 

Country  living  is  delightful,  but,  like  all  other 
blessings,  it  has  its  alternates  of  shadow.  I 
used  to  sit  here  by  my  window  last  April 
and  gloat  over  the  prospects  for  the  vegetable 
garden  a  tramp  laid  out  and  seeded  for  me  in 
the  early  spring.  What  luscious  peas  were  go- 
ing to  clamber  over  the  trellis  along  about  the 
middle  of  July!  What  golden  squashes  were  going 
to  nestle  in  the  little  hollows!  What  lusty  corn 
was  going  to  stride  the  hillocks!  What  colonies 
of  beans  and  beds  of  lettuce  should  fill  the 
spaces,  like  stars  in  the  wake  of  a  triumphant 
moon,  and  how  odorous  the  breath  of  the  health- 
ful onion  should  be  upon  the  midsummer  air! 
But  listen.  No  Assyrian  ever  yet  came  down 
upon  the  fold  as  my  neighbor's  chickens  have 
descended  upon  the  fair  territory  of  my  garden. 
As  for    shooing    a    chicken  off,  my    dear,    when 

its  gigantic  intellect    is  set    upon  scratching    up 

81 


82  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

a  seeded  bed,  you  might  as  well  attempt  to  wave 
back  a  thunderstorm  with  a  fan. 

I  have  undertaken  several  difficult  things  in 
my  life,  but  never  one  so  hopeless  as  convincing 
a  calm  and  resolute  hen  that  she  is  an  intruder. 
I  spent  one  glad  summer  trying  to  keep  a  brood 
out  of  a  geranium  bed,  and  had  typhoid  fever 
all  the  fall  just  from  overwork  and  worry.  But 
say  there  had  been  no  chickens  to  "wear  the 
heart  and  waste  the  body, "  how  about  potato 
bugs,  and  caterpillars  and  liuge  and  gruesome 
slugs?  I  never  go  out  to  sprinkle  the  sad  pea 
vines  or  pick  the  drooping  lettuce  but  what  I 
resolve  myself  into  a  magnet  to  lure  the  early 
vegetable-devouring  reptile  from  its  lair.  Large 
7  by  9  caterpillars  and  zebra-striped  ladybugs 
disport  themselves  on  neck  and  ankle  until  I  flee 
the  scene. 


XXXVIII. 

If  there  is  anything  worse  than  a  blue  jay, 
name  it.  Perhaps  a  mannish  woman,  with  a 
shrill  voice  and  a  waspish  tongue,  is  as  bad,  but 
she  can't  be  worse.  There  are  something  less 
than  a  hundred  of  these  feathered  hornets  dwell- 
ing in  the  grove  that  surrounds  my  house,  and 
they  begin  before  sunrise  to  call  names  and  fight 
clamorous  battles.  One  of  them  starts  the  row 
by  crying  something  in  the  ear  of  a  neighbor, 
which  sounds  like  a  challenge  blown  through  a 
fish  horn.  At  this  the  insulted  neighbor  flops 
down  off  the  tree  where  he  lives,  and  says  naughty 
words  very  thick  and  very  fast.  Then  five  or  six 
old  ladies  poke  their  heads  over  the  sides  of  their 
nests  and  call  "Police!"  A  squad  of  bluecoats 
comes  tearing  over  the  border  and  attacks  the 
original  culprit.  He  whips  out  his  fish  horn  and 
summons  a  general    uprising-      Very    soon    there 

is  a  battle    royal,  to    which  the    old    ladies    p.dd 

83 


84  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

zest  by  squeaking  out  dire  threats  in  shrill  fal- 
setto voices  pitched  at  high  ''C. "  This  keeps 
up  until  somebody  arises  and  declaims  from  my 
open  window,  dancing  meanwhile  in  helpless 
rage,  to  see  how  futile  is  the  voice  of  august 
man  when  blue-jays  hold  the  floor.  Talk  about 
the  English  sparrow !  It  is  a  mild-mannered 
little  gentleman  compared  to  the  noisy  jay. 
Its  politeness  and  amiability  are  Chesterfieldan 
beside  the  behavior  of  its  handsomely  attired 
but  boorish  neighbor.  And  as  for  fighting,  why, 
I  verily  believe  a  bluejay  in  good  condition  could 
'do  up"  John  L.  Sullivan  so  quickly  the  gentle 
pugilist  would  never  know  what  struck  him. 


XXXIX. 

What  roses  are  with  worms  in  the  bud,  such 
are  women  without  health.  There  can  be  no 
beauty  in  unwholesomeness ;  there  can  be  noth- 
ing attractive  in  a  delicate  pallor  caused  by  the 
disregard  of  hygiene,  or  in  a  willowy  figure, 
the  result  of  lacing.  If  I  could  now  and  then 
thread  some  particular  bead  on  an  electric 
wire  that  should  tingle  and  thrill  wherever  it 
touched,  or  write  in  a  streak  of  zig-zag  light 
across  the  sky,  I  might,  perhaps,  compel  atten- 
tion to  what  I  have  to  say.  There  are  certain 
laws  of  health  which,  if  they  only  might  be  re- 
garded, would  make  us  all  as  beautiful  in  out- 
ward seeming  as  we  strive  to  be,  no  doubt,  in 
spirit.  Ever  so  pure  and  lovely  a  soul  in  an 
unhealthy  body  is  like  a  bird  trying  to  thrive 
and  sing  in  an  ill-kept  cage,  or  a  flower  bloom- 
ing with  a  blight  set    deep    within    its  withering 

petals.      You  or  I  can  serve  neither    heaven    nor 

85 


86  A  STRIHG  OF  BEADS 

mankind  worthily  if  v/e  disregard  the  laws  ol 
health,  and  bear  about  with  us  a  frail  and  poorly 
nurtured  body.  There  are  "shut  in"  spirits,  to 
be  sure,  captives  from  birth  to  pain,  the  record 
of  whose  patient  endurance  of  suffering  sweetens 
the  world  in  which  they  live,  as  a  rose  shut 
within  a  dull  and  prosy  book  imparts  to  its  pages 
a  fragrance  born  of  summer  and  heaven;  but 
such  lives  are  the  exception.  The  true  destiny 
of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  earth  is  to  grow 
within  the  garden  of  life  as  a  sapling  rather  than 
as  a  sickly  weed,  developing  timber  rather  than 
pith,  and  yielding  finally  to  death,  the  sharp* 
axed  old  woodman,  as  the  tree  falls,  to  pass  on- 
ward to  new  opportunities  of  power  and  service. 
The  tree  does  not  decay  where  it  stands',  nor  does 
it  often  fall  because  its  core  is  honeycombed  by 
disease.  It  is  cut  down  in  the  meridian  of  its 
strength,  because  somewhere  on  distant  seas  a 
new  ship  is  to  be  launched  and  needs  a  stalwart 
mainmast,  or  a  home  is  to  be  builded  that  needs 
the  fiber  of  strong  and  steadfast  timber.  So,  I 
think,  with  men  and  women,  there  would  not  be 
so  much  unsightly  growing  old,  with  waning 
power  and  wasted  faculties,   if  we  attended  more 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  &11 

Strictly  to  the  laws  of  health,  and  when  death 
came  to  us  at  last  it  should  only  be  because  there 
was  need  of  good  timber  further  on. 


XL. 


I  was  watching  not  long  since,  a  man  talking 
to  a  bright  woman  on  the  train,  and  his  manner 
of  comporting  himself  set  me  to  thinking  of  the 
peculiar  ways  men  have  of  addressing  themselves 
to  women.  Some  talk  to  a  woman  very  much  as 
they  might  talk  to  the  wonderful  automaton 
around 'at  the  museum  when  it  plays  a  game  of 
chess.  "Why,  bless  my  soul,  it  reall}'  seems  to 
be  thinking!  What  apparent  intelligence?  What 
evident  faculty  of  mental  independence!  It  al- 
most appears  to  possess  the  power  of  coherent 
thought!"  Others  sit  in  the  presence  of  a  wo- 
man as  though  she  was  a  dish  of  ice  cream. 
"How  sweet."  "How  refreshing."  "How  alto- 
gether nice!"  Many  behave  in  her  company  as 
though  she  was  a  loaded  gun,  and  liable  to  do 
mischief,  while  a  very  few  act  as  though  she  was 
above  the  wiles  of  flattery,  and  not  to  be  bought 

for  the  price  of  a  new  bonnet.      Hasten  the  day, 

88 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  89 

good  Lord,  v;hen  she  shall  be  regarded  as  some- 
thing wiser  and  nobler  than  an  automaton,  less 
perishable  than  a  confection,  more  comforting 
and  peace-producing  than  a  fire-arm,  a  veritable 
comrade  for  man  at  his  best,  not  so  much  prized 
for  the  vain  and  evanescent  charm  of  her  beauty 
as  for  the  steadfastness  and  the  incorruptible 
purity  of  her  soul. 


XLI. 

What  would  a  man  do,  I  wonder,  if  things 
went  so  irretrievably  wrong  with  him  as  they 
do  with  some  of  us  women?  Why,  take  to  drink, 
of  course.  That  is  a  sovereign  consolation  I  am 
told  for  many  ills.  A  woman  has  no  equivalent 
for  whisky.  She  must  needs  clench  her  hands 
and  set  her  teeth  and  bear  her  lot.  And  yet 
you  tell  us  a  man  is  the  stronger.  I  tell  you, 
my  dear,  I  know  a  dozen  women  v/ho  could  dis- 
count any  soldier  that  ever  fought  in  the  Crimean 
wars,  for  downright  heroism  and  pluck.  Where 
do  you  find  the  man  who  is  willing  to  wear 
shabby  clothes  and  old  boots  and  a  seedy  hat 
that  his  boys  may  go  fine  as  fiddles?  Where 
do  you  find  a  man  who  will  get  up  cold  mornings 
and  make  the  fire,  tramp  to  work  through  snow, 
pick  his  v/ay  through  flooding  rain,  weather 
northeast  blasts  and  go  hungry  and  cold  that  he 
may  keep  the  children  together  which  a  bad  and 

90 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  91 

wayward  mother  has  deserted?  First  thing  a  man 
would  do  in  such  a  case  would  be  to  board  the 
children  out  with  convenient  relatives  while  he 
looked  around  for  a  divorce  and  another  wife! 
How  long  would  a  man  brace  up  under  the  serv- 
ant question?  How  long  would  he  endure  the 
insolence  and  the  flings  of  cruel  and  covert  ene- 
mies because  the  children  needed  all  he  could 
give  them,  and  only  along  the  thorny  road  of 
continual  harassment  and  trial  might  he  attain 
the  earnings  needed  to  render  them  happy  and 
comfortable?  If  a  man  is  insulted  he  settles  the 
insult  with  a  blow  straight  from  the  shoulder 
and  that  is  the  end  of  it;  he  would  never  be  able 
to  endure,  as  some  women  do,  a  never-ending 
round  of  persecution  that  would  whiten  the  hairs 
on  a  sealskin  jacket! 


XLIL 

There  is  one  thing  we  sometimes  see  in  the 
face  of  the  young  that  is  sadder  than  the  ravages 
of  any  disease  or  the  disfigurement  of  any  de- 
formity. Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is?  It  is  the 
mark  that  an  impure  thought  or  an  unclean  jest 
leaves  behind  it.  No  serpent  ever  went  gliding 
through  the  grass  and  left  the  trail  of  defilement 
more  palpably  in  its  wake  than  vulgarity  marks 
the  face.  You  may  be  ever  so  secret  in  your  en- 
joyment of  a  shady  story,  you  may  hide  ever  so 
cunningly  the  fact  that  you  carry  something  in 
your  pocket  which  you  purpose  to  show  only  to 
a  few  and  which  will  perhaps  start  the  laugh 
that,  like  a  bird  of  carrion,  waits  upon  impurity 
and  moral  corruption  for  its  choicest  feeding, 
but  the  mark  of  what  you  tell,  and  what  you  do, 
and  what  you  laugh  at,  is  left  behind  like  a  sketch 
traced  in  indelible  fluid.  There  is  no  beauty  that 
can  stand  the  disfigurement  of  such  a  scar.    How- 

02 


A  STRING  OF  BRADS  93 

ever  bright  your  eyes,  and  rosy-red  your  color, 
and  soft  the  contour  of  lip  and  cheek,  when  the 
relish  of  an  impure  jest  creeps  in,  the  comeliness 
fades  and  perishes,  as  lilies  in  the  languor  of  a 
poisonous  breath  from  off  the  marshes.  I  beg  of 
you,  dear  girls,  shun  the  companion  who  seeks 
to  foul  your  soul  with  sn  obscene  story  or  pic- 
ture, as  you  would  shun  the  contagion  of  small- 
pox. If  I  had  a  daughter  who  went  out  into  the 
world  to  earn  her  bread,  as  some  of  you  do,  and 
any  one  should  seek  to  corrupt  her  purity  by 
insidious  advances,  I  would  get  down  on  my 
knees  and  pray  God  to  take  her  to  himself  be- 
fore her  fair,  sweet  innocence  should  sully  under 
the  breath  of  corruption  and  moral  death.  No- 
body ever  went  to  the  devil  yet  by  one  big  bound, 
like  a  tiger  out  of  a  jungle  or  a  trout  to  the  fly; 
it  is  an  imperceptible  passage  down  an  easy 
slope,  and  the  first  step  of  all  is  sometimes  taken 
when  a  young  girl  lends  her  ears  to  a  smutty 
story  or  a  questionable  jest.  Then  let  me  say 
again,  and  I  wish  I  could  borrow  Fort  Sheridan's 
bugle  to  blow  it  far  and  wide,  that  every  girl 
might  hear:  Close  your  ears  and  harden  your 
hearts    against    the    insidious    advance    of    evil. 


04  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

Have  nothing  to  do  with  a  desk-mate  or  with  a 
comrade  who  seeks  to  amuse  or  entertain  you 
with  conversation  you  would  not  care  to  have 
"mother"  hear,  and  which  you  would  be  sorry  to 
remember,  if  this  night  the  death  angel  came 
knocking  at  the  door  and  summoned  your  soul 
away  upon  its  lonely  journey  to  find  its  God. 


XLIII. 

A  bull-frog  in  a  malarial  pond  is  cxpectel  to 
croak  and  make  all  the  protest  he  can  against 
his  surroundings.  But  a  man!  Destined  for  a 
crown  and  sent  upon  earth  to  be  educated  for 
the  court  of  the  King  of  kings!  Placed  in  an 
emerald  world  with  a  hither  edge  of  opaline 
shadow  and  a  fine  spray  of  diamond-dust  to  set 
it  sparkling;  with  ten  million  singing  birds  to 
form  its  orchestra ;  sunset  clouds  and  sunrise 
mists  to  drape  it,  and  countless  flowers  to  make 
it  sweet  while  the  hand  of  God  himself  upholds 
it  on  its  way  among  the  clustering  stars,  what 
right  has  a  man  to  find  fault  with  his  surround- 
ings, or  lament  himself  that  all  things  do  not 
go  to  suit  him  here  below?  When  it  shall  be 
in  order  for  the  glow-worm  to  call  the  midday 
sun  to  account;  or  for  the  wood-tick  to  find  fault 
with  the  century  old  oak  that  protects  it;    or  for 

the  blue-bird  to  question  the  haze  on  a  midsum- 

95 


96  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

mer  horizon  because,  forsooth!  it  is  a  little  off 
color  with  his  own  wings,  then  it  will  be  time 
for  man  to  find  fault  with  the  ordering  of  the 
seasons  and  the  allotment  of  the  weather  in  the 
world  he  is  allowed  to  inhabit. 


XLIV. 

About  one  hour  of  the  twenty-four  would  per- 
haps be  the  proportion  of  time  a  woman  ought 
to  spend  upon  her  knees  thanking  God  for  a 
good  husband.  When  I  see  the  hosts  of  sorry 
maids,  and  women  wearing  draggled  widow's 
weeds  who  fill  the  ranks  of  the  great  army  of 
the  self-supporting;  when  I  see  them  trooping 
along  in  the  rain,  slipping  along  in  the  mud, 
leaping  for  turning  bridges,  and  hanging  on  to 
the  straps  in  horse  cars,  I  feel  like  sending  out 
a  circular  to  sheltered  and  happy  wives  bidding 
them  be  thankful  for  their  lot.  To  be  sure,  one 
would  rather  be  a  scrub-woman  or  a  circus- 
jumper  than  be  the  wife  of  some  men  we  wot  of, 
but  in  the  main,  a  woman  well  married  is  like  a 
jewel  well  set,  or  like  a  lig4it  well  sheltered  from 
the  wind. 


97 


XLV. 

What  a  grubby  old    stopping   place  this  world 
is,  anyway.      How  hard  we  have  to    work  just  to 
keep  the  flesh  on  our  bones    and  that    flesh  cov- 
ered, even  with  nothing    better  than    homespun. 
And  we  are  getting  a  little  tired  of  it  all,   aren't 
we,  my  dear?  Just  a  little  tired  of  the  treadmill, 
where,  like  a  sheep  in  a  dairy,   we  pace  our  lim- 
ited beat  to  bring  a  handful  of  inadequate  butter. 
We  have  trudged  to  and  fro  about    long  enough, 
and  have  half  a  mind    to  throw    up  the    contract 
with  fate.      But  hold  on  a    bit.      There  is    some- 
thing worse  than  tco  much  work,  and  that  is  idle- 
ness.     Imagine  a  sudden  hush    in  all  the  myriad 
sounds  of  labor.      The    ceasing    of    the    whirr  of 
countless  wheels    whereat    men  stand    day    after 
day  through  toilful  years,  fashioning    everything 
from  a  pin's  head  to  a  ship's  mast;   the  suspended 
click    of    millions    of    sewing    machines,     above 

which  bend  delicate  women  stitching  their  lives 

93 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  99 

into  shirts  and  garments  that  find  their  way  on- 
to bargain  tables,  where  rich  women  crowd  to 
seize  the  advantage  of  the  discount.  Let  all 
suspended  hammers  in  the  myriad  workshops 
swing  into  silence  and  all  footsteps  cease  their 
weary  plodding  to  and  fro,  I  think  the  awful 
hush  would  far  transcend  the  muteness  of  mid- 
night or  that  still  hour  when  dawn  steals  in 
among  the  pallid  stars,  and  on  the  dim,  uncertain 
shore  of  time  the  tide  of  man's  vitality  ebbs  faint 
and  low.  There  is  no  blight  so  fell  as  the  blight 
of  enforced  calm.  It  is  in  the  unworked  garden 
that  weeds  grow.  It  is  in  the  stagnant  water  that 
disease  germs  waken  to  horrid  life.  Ennui  palls 
upon  a  brave  heart.  Ennui  is  like  a  long-winded, 
amiable,  but  watery-idead  friend  who  drops  in  to 
see  us  and  dribbles  platitudes  until  every  nerve 
is  tapped.  Ennui  is  like  being  forced  to  drink 
tepid  water  or  to  eat  soup  without  salt.  Labor, 
on  the  contrar}',  is  like  a  friend  with  grit  and 
tonic  in  liis  make-up.  It  comes  to  us  as  a  wind 
visits  the  forest,  and  sets  our  faculties  stirring 
as  the  wind  rustles  the  leaves  and  sets  the  wood 
fragrance  flying.  It  puts  spice  in  our  broth  and 
ice  in  our  drink.      It    puts    a  flavor    in    life  that 


]0()  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

starts  an  appetite,  or,  in  other  words,  awakens 
ambition.  Although  the  world  is  full  of  toilers 
it  would  be  worse  off  were  it  full  of  idlers. 
Good,  hard  workers  find  no  time  to  make  mis- 
chief. Your  anarchists  and  your  breeders  of  dis- 
cord are  never  found  among  busy  men;  they 
breed,  like  mosquitoes,  out  of  stagnant  places. 
It  is  the  idle  man  that  quickens  hatred  and  con- 
tention, as  it  is  the  setting  hen  and  not  the  scratch- 
ing one  that  hatches  out   the  eggs. 


XLVI. 

It  had  been  a  battle  renewed  for  more  years 
than  there  are  dandelions  just  now  in  the  front 
yard.  Various  members  of  the  family  had  de- 
clared from  time  to  time  that  if  the  old  house 
was  not  painted  it  would  fall  to  pieces  from 
sheer  mortification  at  its  own  disreputable  ap- 
pearance. 

"Why,  you  can  put  your  toothpick  right  through 
the  rotten  shingles,"  cried  the  doctor.  "The 
only  way  to  save  it  is  to  paint  it." 

Now,  I  have  always  been  the  odd  sheep  of  a 
highly  decorous  fold.  I  have  more  love  for  nat- 
ure than  hard  good  sense,  I  am  told.  So  I 
loathe  paint  just  as  I  hate  surface  manners.  I 
want  the  true  grain  all  the  way  through,  be  it  in 
boards  or  people.  I  love  the  weather  stain  on 
an  old  house.  I  love  the  mossy  touches,  the 
lichen  grays  and  the  russet  browns  that  age  im- 
parts to  the  shingles,  and  I  almost  feel  like  mur- 

101 


102  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

dering  the  paint  fiend  when  he  comes  around 
every  spring  and  transforms  some  dear  old  land- 
mark into  a  gorgeous  "Mrs.  Skewton,"  with  hid- 
eous coats  and  splashy  trimmings.  But  alas  for 
sentiment  when  the  money  bags  are  against  it! 
Profit  before  poetry  any  day  in  this  nineteenth 
century,  my  dear,  and  so  when  an  interested  cap- 
italist came  up  from  town  and  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  the  old  house  would  be  worth  a 
third  more  if  put  on  the  market  in  a  terra  cotta 
coat  with  sage-green  trimmings  the  day  was  lost 
for  me.  I  had  to  strike  my  colors  like  many 
another  idealist  in  this  practical  world.  In  the 
first  place,  there  has  been  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  or  so,  a  vine  growing  all  over  the  old  home, 
catching  its  lithe  tendrils  into  the  roof  and  mak-- 
ing  cathedral  lights  in  all  the  windows.  It  has 
been  the  home  of  generations  of  robins.  It  has 
hung  full  of  purple,  bcU-shaped  blossoms  on 
coral  stems  that  have  attracted  a  thousand  hum- 
ming birds  and  honey  bses  by  their  fragrance. 
It  has  changed  into  a  veritable  cloth  of  gold  in 
early  September,  and  in  late  October  has  flamed 
into  scarlet  against  the  gray  roof,  like  a  blaze 
that  quivers  athwart  a  stormy   sky.      It  has  been 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  l03 

the  joy  of  my    life    and    the    inspiration    of    my 
dreams,    but    it   had    to   come    down    before    the 
paint-pot!     So   one  night  when  I  reached  home, 
tired    to    death    with  a    hand-to-hand    encounter 
with  the    demon    who    gives    poor  mortals   their 
bread  and  butter    for  an    equivalent  of  flesh  and 
blood  and  spirit,   I    noticed    that  the    little    folks 
greeted  me  with  an  air    of    subdued    decorum  as 
though  fresh    from    a    funeral.      There    were    no 
caperings,  no    flauntings,    no    cavortings.     Each 
young  minx    had    on    her    Sunday  go-to-meeting 
air,  and  the  boy  stood  with  his  hat    on    one  side 
of  his  head,  as  though  for  a    sixpence    he    would 
fight  all  creation.      Wondering    at  the    change,   I 
happened  to  look  toward  the  house,  and  there  it 
stood  in  the  light  of  the    fading  day,  like  a  poor 
old  woman  without  a  veil  to   hide   her  wrinkles! 
Every  window  looked  ashamed  of   itself,  and  on 
the  ground  lay  the  dear  old  vine,  prone  as  a  lost 
reputation. 

"I  never  see  such  an  ill-fired  crank  in  all  the 
days  of  my  life!"  remarked  the  painter  to  the 
new  girl,  after  I  had  held  a  brief  but  spirited  in- 
terview with  him  over  the  garden  fence;  "blanked 
if  she   didn't  cry  because  her  vine  was  downK' 


XLVII. 

What  is  there    within    the    home,  during    the 
winter  season  at  least,  that   seems  so  thoroughly 
to  constitute  the  soul  of  home  as  the  family-room 
stove?     It  can    never   be    replaced    by    that  ugly 
hole  in    the    floor  which    floods  our    rooms  with 
furnace  heat,  with  no  glow  of    cheerful  firelight, 
no  flicker  of  flame  or    changeful    play    of  shadow 
out  of  which  to  weave  fantastic  dreams  and  fan- 
cies.     I  once  watched    the    dying  out    of    one  of 
these  fires  in  a  great  base    burner,  around  which 
for  years  a  large  and  loving  family  had  gathered. 
The  furniture  of  the  home  liad  all  been  sold,  and 
the  family  was  about  to  scatter.    The  trunks  were 
packed  and  gone,   the  last  article   removed  from 
the  place,  and  the  old  stove  was  left  to  burn  out 
its  fire  at  the  last,  that  it,  too,  might  be  removed 
next  morning.     And  after  the  evening  had  come 
and  was  far  spent,  the    last  evening  wherein  any 

right  should  remain  to  us  to    enter  the  old  home 

104 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  105 

as  its  owners  and  occupants,  I  took  my  pass-key 
and  slipped  over  from  the  neighbor's  for  my 
final  good-bye  to  the  dear  old  home.  The  fire- 
light, like  the  glance  of  a  reproachful  eye,  shone 
upon  me  through  the  gloom  of  the  deserted  par- 
lor. "Have  I  not  warmed  you  and  comforted 
you  and  cheered  you  with  my  genial  glow?"  a 
voice  seemed  to  say;  "and  now  you  have  corne 
to  see  me  die!  I  am  the  vital  spirit  of  your  home. 
I  am  dying,  and  nothing  can  ever  reanimate 
these  deserted  rooms  again  with  the  dear,  the 
beautiful  past." 

Like  the  eye  of  one  who  is  going  down  to 
death,  the  firelight  faded  and  finally  went  out 
in  the  pallor  of  ashes,  while  I,  sitting  alone  in 
the  darkness,  felt  the  whole  world  drearier  for  a 
little  space  for  the  final  extinguishment  of  this 
fire,  the  death  hour  of  a  once  happy  home. 


XLVIII. 

Somebody  asked  me  the  other  day  if  I  favored 
divorce.  Like  everything  else  in  the  world,  the 
matter  depends  largely  upon  special  circum- 
stance, but  in  the  main  I  do  not  believe  in  di- 
vorce. If  husbands  and  wives  cannot  live  to- 
gether without  quarreling,  let  them  live  apart, 
but  they  have  no  business  to  sever  the  bond  that 
unites  them.  The  promise  to  take  each  other 
for  "better  or  for  worse"  must  be  regarded  in 
both  readings  of  the  clause.  If  the  "worse"  comes 
along  we  have  no  right  to  ignore  it  because  the 
"better"  has  failed.  If  your  husband  is  a  drunk- 
ard, all  the  more  reason  for  you  to  stand  by  him 
if  you  are  a  good  woman.  If  he  is  cruel  and 
abusive,  you  need  not  put  your  life  in  danger  by 
staying  under  his  roof,  but  you  need  not  throw 
him  over  and  get  another  husband.  If  he  goes 
into  the  gutter,  pull  him  out,  and  know  that 
your  experience  is  only  a  big  dose  of  the  "worse" 

lOG 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  107 

you  promised  to  take  along  with  the  "better." 
It  is  the  quinine  with  the  honey,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  reject  it.  There  are  10,000  things 
that  work  discord  in  married  life  that  a  little 
tact  and  forbearance  would  dissipate,  as  a  steady 
wind  will  blow  away  gnats.  The  trouble  with 
all  of  us  is,  we  make  too  much  of  trifles.  We 
nurse  them,  and  feed  them,  and  magnify  them, 
until  from  gnats  they  grow  to  be  buzzards  with 
their  beaks  in  our  hearts.  Not  for  one  sin,  nor 
seven  sins,  nor  seventy  sins,  forsake  the  friend 
you  chose  from  all  the  world  to  make  your  own. 
A  good  woman  will  save  anything  but  a  liar, 
and  God's  grace  is  adequate,  in  time,  for  even 
him.  I  say  unto  wives,  be  large-hearted,  wide 
in  your  charity,  generous,  not  paltry,  nor  exact- 
ing, (exaction  has  murdered  more  loves  than 
Herod  murdered  babies!)  companionable,  for- 
bearing and  true,  and  stand  by  your  husbands 
through  everything.  And  I  say  unto  men,  be 
7//en/  Don't  choose  a  wife,  in  the  first  place, 
for  the  mere  exterior  of  a  pretty  face  and  form. 
Be  as  alert  in  the  choice  of  a  wife  as  you  are  in 
a  bargain.  You  don't  invest  in  a  house  just  be- 
cause it  looks  well,  or    buy  a    suit  of    clothes  at 


108  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

first  sight,  or  dash  on  change  and  snatch  at  the 
first  deal.  After  you  are  once  married  stand  by 
your  choice  like  a  man.  If  you  must  have  your 
beer,  don't  sneak  out  of  it  on  a  clove  and  a  lie; 
carefully  weigh  the  cost,  and  if  you  conclude  to 
risk  everything  for  the  gratification  of  an  appetite 
drink  at  home  and  above  board,  and  don't  attempt 
to  deceive  your  wife  with  subterfuges  and  ex- 
cuses. Don't  run  after  other  v/omen  because  your 
wife  is  not  so  young  as  she  once  was,  or  because 
the  bloom  is  faded  a  little  from  the  face  you 
once  thought  so  fair.  It  is  the  part  of  an  Indian 
to  retract  a  gift  once  given,  or  to  go  back  on  a 
bargain.  Don't  live  together  if  you  can't  rise 
above  the  level  of  fighting  cats,  but  be  careful 
how  you  throw  aside  the  bonds  that  God  has 
joined  between  you.  Live  the  lot  you  have 
chosen  as  bravely  as  you  can,  remembering  that 
the  thorn  that  you  have  developed  will  never 
change  into  a  rose  by  mere  change  of  circum- 
stances. Divorce  and  the  mere  shifting  of  the 
stage  setting  will  never  make  your  tragedy  over 
into  a  vaudeville  or  a  light  opera. 


XLIX. 

The  rainy  season  is  here  again,  and  where  is 
dress-reform?  My  soul  grew  sick,  the  other  morn- 
ing as,  with  unfurled  umbrella,  lunch-basket, 
bundle,  and  draperies,  1  beheld  the  working  wo- 
man on  her  weary  march.  Give  a  man  a  petti- 
coat, a  bundle  and  an  umbrella,  and  the  streets 
would  be  full  of  capering  lunatics  whenever  it 
rained.  Stay  at  home,  did  you  say?  That  is 
good  advice  for  the  woman  who  has  nothing  else 
to  do,  but  in  these  latter  days  the  right  sort  of 
husband  don't  go  round.  Either  he  died  in  the 
war  or  the  stock  has  run  low,  so  that  more  than 
half  the  well-meaning  women  have  no  homes  to 
stay  in.  "What  Moses  is  going  to  lead  the 
poor  creatures  to  the  commonsense  suit  that 
shall  protect  them  from  the  inclement  weather 
they  are  forced  to  meet  as  they  go  abroad 
to  earn  their  bread  and  salt?  It  must  be  a 
concerted    movement,  for    there    is    none   among 

109 


110  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

us  who  dares  take  the  war  path  alone.  The  chil- 
dren of  Israel  went  in  a  crowd  and  so  must  we. 
For  a  principle  there  are  those  among  us  who 
would  die,  perhaps,  but  there  is  no  principle  on 
the  earth  below  nor  in  the  heaven  above  for 
which  we  would  suffer  ridicule.  As  for  me,  I 
have  furled  my  banner  and  laid  aside  my  bugle. 
I  am  tired  of  being  a  martyr  to  an  unpopular 
cause.  I  am  too  big  a  coward  to  be  caught  mak- 
ing an  everlasting  object  of  myself.  I  have  gone 
back  to  ilippity-floppity  skirts  and  long  gowns 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  "flesh  pots."  Browning 
says  of  a  certain  class  of  people  :  "The  dread 
of  shame  has  made  them  tame,"  and  I  am  one 
of  the  tame  ones.  A  domestic  tabby  couldn't  be 
tamer,  nor  a  yellow  bird  fed  on  lump  sugar.  I 
expect  nothing  but  that  my  winter's  hat  will  be 
adorned  with  a  chubby  green  parrot,  and  that  I 
shall  walk  the  street  leading  a  brimstone  dog  by 
a  magenta  ribbon.  If  one  is  forced  to  eat,  drink 
and  sleep  with  the  Romans,  perhaps  it  is  better 
for  one's  peace  of  mind  not  to  be  too  pronounced 
a  Greek ! 


•  I  shall  meet  the  man  who  ticsi  his  horse's  nose 
in  a  bag,  some  day,  in  single  combat,  and  there 
will  be  only  one  of  us  left  to  tell  the  tale  of  the 
encounter.  Wouldn't  I  love  to  see  that  man 
forced  to  take  his  dinner  while  tied  up  in  a  flour 
bag!  I  should  love  to  deal  out  his  coffee  through 
a  garden  hose,  and  serve  his  vegetables  through 
a  long-distance  telephone.  There  is  nothing  like 
turn  about  to  incite  justice  in  the  human  breast. 
While  we  are  afflicted  v/ith  such  an  epidemic 
of  strikes,  why  not  have  one  that  has  some  sense 
in  it.  Let  the  overworked  horses,  straining  them- 
selves blind  with  terrible  loads,  go  on  a  strike. 
Let  the  persecuted  dogs,  deprived  of  water  and 
scrimped  for  food,  stoned  and  hounded  as  mad 
when  they  are  only  crazed  by  man's  inhumanity, 
go  on  a  strike.  Let  the  cattle,  and  the  countless 
thousands  of  stock,  prodded  into  cars  and 
cramped  in  long  passages  of  transit,  blinded  with 

111 


112  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

the  crash  of  fellow  victims'  horns  while  crowded 
together  in  their  inadequate  quarters,  trampled 
under  riotous  hoofs,  and  kept  without  food  and 
overfilled  with  water  to  make  them  look  fat,  go 
on  a  strike.  Let  the  chickens  and  geese  and 
all  the  live  feathered  stock  on  South  Water 
Street,  kept  in  little  bits  of  coops  and  flung 
headlong  and  screaming  down  into  dark  cellars, 
trundled  over  rough  roads  in  jolting  wagons  and 
utterly  deprived  for  hours  at  a  time  of  a  drop  of 
water  to  cool  the  fever  of  their  terrible  fear,  go 
on  a  strike.  Let  the  horses  of  these  fat  alder- 
men, left  all  day  in  the  court  house  alleyway 
without  food  and  checked  tight  with  head-check 
lines,  go  on  a  strike.  Let  the  patient  nags  that 
stand  all  day  by  the  curbstone  and  are  plagued 
and  annoyed  by  mischievous  boys,  go  on  a 
strike.  In  such  a  strike  as  any  of  these  the  Lord 
himself  might  condescend  to  take  sides  with  the 
oppressed  against  the  oppressor. 


LI. 

There  are  many  disagreeable  things  to  be  met 
with  in  life,  but  none  that  is  much  harder  upon 
the  nerves  than  a  mannish  woman.  With  a 
strident  voice  and  a  swaggering  walk,  and  a  clat- 
tering tongue,  she  takes  her  course  through  the 
world  like  a  cat-bird  through  an  orchard;  the 
thrushes  and  the  robins  are  driven  right  and  left 
before  the  ^advance  of  the  noisy  nuisance.  A 
coarse-tongued  man  is  bad  enough,  heaven  knows, 
but  when  a  woman  descends  to  slangy  speech, 
and  vulgar  jests,  and  harsh  diatribes,  there  is 
no  language  strong  enough  with  which  to  de- 
nounce her.  On  the  principle  that  a  strawberry 
is  quicker  to  spoil  than  a  pumpkin,  it  takes  less 
to  render  a  woman  obnoxious  than  to  m.ake  a 
man  unfit  for  decent  company.  I  am  no  lover 
of  butter-mouthed  girls,  of  prudes  and  "prunes 
and  prism"  fine  ladies;  I  love  sprlghtliness  and 
gay  spirits  and    unconventionality,  but    the  mo- 

113 


114  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

ment  a  woman  steps    over  the    border  land    that 
separates  delicacy    of  feeling,    womanliness    and 
lovableness,    from    rudeness,     loud-voiced    slang 
and  the  unblusliing  desire  for    notoriety,  she  be- 
comes, in  the  eyes  of  all  whose  opinion  is  worth 
having,  a  miserable  caricature  upon  her  sex.      It 
is  not  quite  so  bad  to  see  a  young  girl  making  a 
fool  of  herself  as  to  see  an  elderly   woman    com- 
porting herself  in  a  giddy  manner  in  public  places. 
We  look  for  feather-heads  among   juveniles,    but 
surely  the  cares  and  troubles  of  fifty  years  should 
tame     down    the    high    spirits    of    any     woman. 
Chance  took  me    into  a    public    office  the    other 
day,  'largely  conducted  by  women.      Conspicuous 
among  the  clerks  was  a  woman   whose    age  must 
have  exceeded  fifty  years.      She  was    exchanging 
loud  pleasantries  with  a  couple  of  beardless  boys 
upon   the    question    of    "getting    tight."     Noble 
theme  for  a  woman  old  enough  to  be  their  grand- 
mother to  choose!     As  I    listened    to    the  coarse 
jests  and  looked  into  her  hard  and  unlovely  face, 
I  could  but  wonder    how  nature    ever   made    the 
mistake  to    label    such    material — "woman."      It 
would  be  no  more  of  a  surprise  to  find  a  confec- 
tioner's stock    made  up    of   coarse    salt,  marked 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  115 

"sugar,"  or  to  buy  burdock  of  a  florist,  merely 
because  the  tag  attached  to  it  was  lettered  "moss 
rose. " 


LIT. 


The  onl^'  wa}'  to  conquer  a  cast-iron  destiny 
is  to  yield  to  it.  You  will  break  to  pieces  if  you 
are  always  casting  yourself  upon  the  rocks.  Sit 
down  on  the  'sorrowing  stone"  now  and  then,  but 
don't  expect  to  last  long  if  you  are  constantly 
flinging  yourself  head  first  against  it.  If  life 
holds  nothing  nobler  and  sweeter  than  the  routine 
of  uncongenial  work,  if  all  the  pleasant  anticipa- 
tions and  lively  hopes  of  youth  remain  but  as 
cotton  fabrics  do  when  the  colors  have  washed 
away,  if  good  intention  and  noble  purpose  glim- 
mer only  a  little  now  and  then  from  out  the 
murky  environments  of  your  lot,  as  fisher  lights 
at  sea,  accept  the  inevitable  and  make  the  best 
of  it.  Nothing  can  stop  us  if  we  are  bound  to 
grow.  We  are  not  like  trees  that  can  be  hewed 
down  by  every  chance  woodman's  axe;  death  is 
the  only  woodman  abroad  for  us,  and  he  does 
pot  hew  down,  he   simply    transplants.      God    is 

116 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  111 

our  only  judge;  to  him  alone  shall  we  j'ield  the 
record  of  life's  troubled  day,  and  isn't  it  a  great 
comfort  to  think  that  he  so  fully  understands 
what  have  been  our  limitations,  and  how  we  have 
been  handicapped  and  baffled  and  hindered?  If 
jockeys  were  to  enter  their  horses  for  the  great 
Derby  with  the  understanding  that  the  road  was 
rough  and  the  horses  blind,  do  you  think  much 
would  be  expected  of  the  finish?  And  is  heaven 
less  discriminating  than  a  horse  jockey? 


LIII. 

Next  to  a  steam  calliope  preserve  me  from  a 
"smart"  person.  There  is  as  much  difference  be- 
tween smartness  and  brain  as  there  is  between 
a  jewsharp  and  a  flute,  or  between  mustard  and 
wine.  A  "smart"  person  may  turn  off  a  lot  of 
work  and  make  things  hum;  so  does  a,  buzz 
saw  !  Who  would  not  rather  spend  an  afternoon 
with  a  lark  than  with  a  hornet?  The  lark  may 
not  be  so  active,  but  activity  is  not  always  the 
most  desirable  thing  in  the  world.  A  smart  per- 
son may  accomplish  more  than  a  dreamer,  but 
in  the  long  run  I'll  take  my  chance  with  the 
latter.  When  we  go  up  to  St.  Peter's  gate  by 
and  by,  after  life's  long,  blundering  march  is 
over,  it  will  not  be  the  answer  to  such  questions 
as  this:  "How  many  socks  can  you  darn  in  an 
afternoon,  besides  baking  bread,  washing  win- 
dows, tending  babies  and  scrubbing  floors?"  that 
is  going  to  help  us;  but,    'How  many  times  have 

118 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  HO 

you  stopped  your  work  to  bind  up  a  broken 
heart,  or  say  a  comforting  word,  or  help  carry 
a  burden  for  somebody  worse  off  than  yourself?" 
I  tell  you,  smart  folks  never  have  the  time  to  be 
sympathetic;  they  always  have  too  much  thunder- 
ing work  on  hand. 


LIV. 

The  other  day  a  horse  was  trying  to  get  a 
very  small  quantity  of  oats  from  the  depths  of 
a  very  small  nosebag.  In  vain  the  poor  fellow 
tossed  his  head  and  did  his  best  to  gain  his 
dinner.  At  last,  just  as  hue  was  settling  down 
to  dumb  and  despairing  patience,  a  bright-faced 
boy  of  perhaps  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age  hap. 
pened  along.  Seeing  the  dilemma  of  the  horse, 
the  little  fellow  stopped  and  said:  "Halloa,  can't 
get  your  oats,  can  you?  Never  mind,  I'll  fix 
you!"  And  straightway  he  shortened  up  the 
straps  that  held  the  bag  in  place,  and,  with  a 
kindly  pat  and  a  cheery  word  which  the  grateful 
horse  seemed  to  appreciate,  went  his  way.  1 
would  like  to  be  the  mother,  or  the  aunt,  or 
even  the  first  cousin  of  that  boy.  I  would  rather 
that  he  should  belong  to  me  than  that  I  should 
own  a  Paganini  violin,  or  a  first  water  diamond 
the  size  of  a  Concord    grape.      Bless    his    heart, 

120 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  121 

wherever  he  is,  and  may  he  long  continue  to  live 
in  a  world  that  needs  him.  Kindness  of  heart, 
and  tenderness;  consideration  for  the  needs  of 
the  helpless  and  the  weak,  and  the  courage  that 
dares  be  true  to  a  merciful  impulse,  are  traits 
that  go  far  toward  the  make-up  of  angels.  We 
need  tender-hearted  boys  more  than  we  need  a 
new  tariff  to  bring  up  and  develop  the  resources 
of  the  country.  The  boy  that  succeeds  in  bring- 
ing in  the  greatest  number  of  dead  sparrows  may 
be  the  embryo  man  of  the  future,  and  you  may 
praise  his  energy  and  his  smartness,  but  give 
me  the  boy  who  took  the  trouble  to  adjust  the 
nose-bag  every  time.  A  little  less  business  acu- 
men, a  good  bit  less  greet,  and  cruelty,  will  tell 
on  future  character  to  the  comfort  of  all  con- 
cerned. 


LV. 


Policy  in  the  hands  of  a  diplomat  is  like  a 
sharp  sword  in  the  grasp  of  an  able  fencer,  but 
policy  in  the  hands  of  fools  is  like  a  good  knife 
wielded  by  a  half-wit.  It  takes  brains  to  be 
truly  politic;  the  unfortunate  person  who  at- 
tempts to  be  cautious,  and  wise,  and  reticent, 
and  to  let  policy  thread  every  action  as  a  string* 
runs  through  glass  beads,  only  succeeds  in  mak- 
ing himself  ridiculous.  To  be  afraid  to  speak 
what  is  in  your  mind  for  fear  you  will  make 
yourself  unpopular,  to  be  too  cautious  to  men- 
tion the  fact  that  you  are  having  a  new  latch 
put  on  your  front  gate  for  fear  that  you  might 
be  over-communicative,  to  be  backward  in  taking 
sides  for  fear  of  committing  yourself  to  a  losing 
cause,  may  be  politic  to  your  own  feeble  intelli- 
gence, but  in  the  estimation  of  brainy  folks  it  is 
a  species  of  feline  idiocy  worse  than  fits. 


122 


LVI. 

All  day  long  it  has  been  tr3'ing  to  snow  out 
here  in  the  country.  To  me  not  even  June,  with 
its  showering  apple-tree  flowers  and  its  alterna- 
tions of  silver  rain  and  golden  sunshine,  is  more 
beautiful  than  these  soft  winter  days,  full  of 
snow-feathers  and  great  shadows.  I  love  to 
watch  the  young  pines  take  on  their  holiday  at- 
tire. How  they  robe  themselves  from  head  to 
foot  in  draperies  of  fleecy  white,  pin  diamonds 
in  their  dark  branches  and  wind  about  their 
slender  girth  the  strands  of  evanescent  pearl ! 
I  love  to  watch  the  skies  at  dawn  when  they 
kindle  like  a  flame  above  the  bluffs  and  scat- 
ter sparkles  of  light  as  a  red  rose  scatters  its 
petals.  Where  has  the  last  year  fled?  It  seems 
but  yesterday  that  I  sat  by  tliis  same  window  and 
watched  the  lilac  plumes  unfold  on  that  old  bush 
that  to-day  is  getting  ready  to  don  its  ermine. 
Why,  at  this  rate,  my   dear,  it    won't    he    longer 

123 


124  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

than  day  after  to-morrow  morning  before  you  and 
I  wake  up  and  find  ourselves  old  folks.  How 
odd  it  will  seem  to  look  in  the  glass  and  see 
wisps  of  frosted  stubble  in  place  of  the  wavy 
locks  of  brown,  and  jet,  and  gold!  Ah,  well,  it 
is  a  comfort  to  think  that  some  folks  defy  time, 
and  are  as  young  at  seventy  as  at  seventeen. 
Beauty  fades,  and  witchery  takes  unto  itself 
wings,  but  true  hearts,  like  wine,  mellow  and  en- 
rich with  years. 


LVII. 

I  often  sit  for  a  half  hour  or  more  in  tlie  de- 
pot waiting-room,  and  for  lack  of  anj'thing  else 
to  do  employ  the  time  in  watching  the  people 
who  crowd  through  the  swinging  doors.  Did 
you  ever  read  the  "Little  Pilgrim?"  Do  you 
recall  the  chapter  wherein  the  disembodied  spir- 
its are  represented  as  lingering  near  the  gates 
to  watch  the  coming  in  of  newly  liberated  souls? 
Sometimes  while  sitting  in  one  of  the  big  rock- 
ing chairs  I  imagine  to  myself  that  the  constantly 
opening  doors  are  the  portals  of  death  and  I  the 
lingering  one  who  watches  the  throngs  that  are 
constantly  exchanging  earth  for  paradise.  Along 
comes  an  old  man  with  a  shabby  bundle;  he 
cautiously  opens  the  door  and  slips  in  like  one 
who  offers  an  excuse  for  his  presence  on  the  thither 
side.  Presently  he  lays  down  his  bundle  and 
seats  himself,  a  pilgrim  whose  wanderings  and 
weariness  are    over.      The    brilliant    lights,    the 

126 


126  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

comfortable  surroundings,  the  sound  of  pleasant 
voices  all  till  his  heart  with  joy,  and  he  settles 
himself  back,  thoroughly  glad  to  be  at  rest. 
Next,  a  beautiful  woman  enters;  her  face  is  lined 
with  care  and  her  dark,  bright  eyes  are  full  of 
trouble.  She  does  not  tarry,  but  hurries  on  like 
one  seeking  for  something  yet  to  come.  A  little 
child,  with  lingering,  backward  glance,  Hits 
through  the  swinging  door  as  if  loath  to  say 
good-bye  to  some  one  on  the  other  side.  A  hard- 
featured  man,  whose  sullen  glance  travels  quickly 
about  the  place,  comes  next;  he  seems  seeking 
for  some  one  to  welcoine  him,  and  is  abashed  to 
find  himself  alone  among  unheeding  strangers. 
Next  a  bevy  of  laughing  girls  come  in  together, 
and  the  door,  swinging  quickly  behind  them,, 
discloses  a  band  of  young  companions  who  ling- 
eringly  turn  away,  content  to  know  the  sheltered 
ones  are  safely  gathered  out  of  the  darkness  and 
the  storm  which  they  must  still  face.  Some  en- 
ter the  door  as  though  bewildered;  some  as 
though  glad  to  find  rest;  some  as  though  fright- 
ened at  unknown  harm,  and  some  as  though  sus- 
picious of  all  that  they  beheld.  Once  I  noticed 
a  poor  creature  who  came  through  the  door  cry- 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  127 

ing  bitterly,  but  her  tears  were  quickly  dried  by 
a  waiting  one  who  sprang  forward  and  greeted 
her  with  a  tender  embrace.  And  at  another  time 
a  baby  came  through  in  the  arms  of  one  who 
held  it  close  so  that  it  was  not  conscious  of  the 
transition.  Sometimes  I  am  glad  to  believe  that 
death  is  no  more  than  the  swinging  door  which 
divides  two  apartments  in  a  mighty  mansion, 
and  that  our  going  through  is  no  more  than  the 
exchange  of  a  cold  and  unlighted  hallway  for  a 
spacious  living-room  where  all  is  light  and 
warmth  and  blessed  activity. 


LVIII. 

Eating  milk  toast  with  a  spoon  and  stopping 
between  each  mouthful  to  swear!  That  was  what 
I  saw  and  heard  a  brawny  man  doing  not  long 
since  in  a  popular  down  town  restaurant.  The 
action  and  the  manner  of  speecii  did  not  harmo- 
nize. If  I  felt  it  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  must 
be  a  profane  fellow  to  prove  my  manliness,  I 
would  choose  another  diet  than  spoon  victuals 
to  nourish  my  formidable  zest  for  naughtiness. 
Rare  beef  or  wild  game  would  be  less  incongru- 
ous. There  are  times  when  a  man  may  be  ex- 
cused for  using  objectionable  language.  Stress 
of  righteous  indignation,  seasons  of  personal  con- 
flict with  hansom  cabmen,  large-headed  street 
car  conductors,  ubiquitous,  never  dying  expec- 
torators  and  many  other  particular  forms  of  tor- 
ment may  make  a  man  swear  a  bit  now  and 
then,  but  what  shall  we  say  of  a  bearded  creat- 
ure with  the  dew  of  a  babe's  food  upon  his    chin 

128 


A  STRING  OF  BEADS  129 

who  rends  the  placid  air  with  unnecessary  curs- 
ing? Sew  up  his  lips  with  a  surgeon's  needle 
and  throw  him  into  the  fool-killer's  bag! 


LIX. 

Boys,  you  know  I  like  you  and  will  stand  a 
good  deal  of  your  swaggering  ways.  I  like  to 
see  how  fresh  you  are,  and  do  not  want  to  have 
you  salted  down  too  early  by  the  processes  of 
life.  But  one  thing  let  me  ask  you.  Don't  wear 
silk  hats  before  the  down  is  fully  apparent  upon 
your  chin.  If  there  is  an  embarrassing  sight  left 
to  one  grown  wan  and  worn  in  watching  the 
foolishness  of  folly,  it  is  the  sight  of  a  stripling 
in  a  plug  hat.  I  would  rather  see  a  yearling 
colt  hauling  lumber,  or  a  babe  in  arms  scanning 
Homer.  It  is  cruel;  it  is  premature.  Be  a  boy 
until  you  are  fit  to  be  a  man,  and  hold  to  a  boy's 
mode  of  dress  at  least  until  you  are  old  enough 
to  command  the  respect  of  sensible  girls  by  some- 
thing more  notable  than  cigarette  smoking  and 
athletic  sports. 


130 


LX. 


I  often  hear  people  making  a  big  fuss  about 
little  things.  My  path  in  life  leads  me  among 
many  "kickers"  and  many  "growlers."  Do  you 
know  what  I  would  like  to  do  with  some  of  these 
malcontents  and  whiners?  I  would  like  to  send 
them  up  for  a  week  to  watch  life  in  the  county 
hospital.  I  would  like  to  seat  them  by  a  bedside 
where  a  noble  woman  lies  dying  all  alone  of  a 
terrible  disease.  I  would  like  to  have  them  be- 
come acquainted  with  her  bravery  and  the  more 
than  queenly  calm  with  which  she  confronts  her 
destiny.  I  would  like  to  have  them  linger  in  the 
corridors  and  hear  the  moans  from  the  wards  and 
private  rooms  where  the  maimed  and  the  crippled 
and  the  incurable  are  faintly  struggling  in  the 
grasp  of  death.  I  would  like  to  lead  them 
through  the  children's  ward,  where  mites  of  hu- 
manity cursed  with  heredity's  blight,  removed 
from  a   mother's    bosom,  consigned    to    suffering 

1^31 


132  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

throughout  the  span  of  their  feeble  days,  lie 
faintly  breathing  their  lives  away.  And  then 
I  would  like  to  say  to  them:  "You  contemptible 
cowards,  you  abominable  fussers,  you  inexcusa- 
ble kickers,  see  what  the  Lord  might  bring  you 
to  if  he  unloosed  the  leash  and  set  real  troubles 
on  your  track.  Quit  complaining  and  go  to 
thanking  heaven  for  all  your  unspeakable  mer- 
cies!' 


LXI. 

Every  morning  just  at  7  the  entire  neighbor- 
hood turns  out  to  see  them  pass.  She  is  a  de- 
mure little  lady  Vv'ith  a  face  that  makes  one  think 
of  a  blush  rose,  a  little  past  its  prime,  but  mighty 
sweet  to  look  upon.  She  wears  a  mite  of  a  white 
sim  bonnet,  clean  as  fresh  fallen  snow,  and 
starched  and  stiff  as  tlie  best  pearl  gloss  can 
make  it.  The  cape  of  this  cute  little  bonnet 
shades  a  round  white  throat,  and  the  strings  are 
tied  beneath  the  chin  in  a  ravishing  bow  that 
stands  guard  over  a  dimple.  She  has  been  mar- 
ried quite  ten  years,  and  they  say  that  the  two 
little  children  who  were  cradled  for  a  few  happy 
months  on  her  soft  breast  are  waiting  and  watch- 
ing for  her  coming  the  other  side  of  the  river  of 
death.  He  is  a  matter-of-fact  looking  man,  with 
a  resolute  face  and  a  constant  smile  in  his  eyes. 
He  always  carries  a  lunch-basket  in  one  hand  and 

with  the  other  guides    the    steps  of  the    faithful 

133 


134  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

little  woman  who  accompanies   him    part  way  on 
the  march  of  his  daily  grind.      He  works    down- 
town in  a    big  warehouse    and  he    makes    hardly 
enough  money  each  week  to  keep  you    in  cigars, 
my  good  friend,  or  your  wife  in  novels.     Though 
it  rain,  or    though    it    shine,     though     the  winds 
blow  or  the  winds  are    low,  whatever    betide    of 
chance,  or    change,  or    weather,   there    is  not    a 
morning  that  he  goes  to  work  that    she  does  not 
walk  with  him  as  far    as  the    corner,  and    in  the 
face  ot  men  and  angels,  grip  car  conductors    and 
clerks,  shop    girls   and    grimacing    urchins,  kiss 
him  good-bye.      She  stands  and  watches  until  he 
is  well  on  his  wa}^  then    waves  him    a  final  fare- 
well, and  trips  back  home  in  the  serene    shadow 
of  her  little  bonnet.      Now  you  may  ridicule  that 
love  and  call  it  "spoony"   and  "silly,"   but,   I  tell 
you,  a  legacy    of    gold  or  a    hatful  of    diamonds 
could  not  begin  to  outvalue  such  love  in  a  man's 
home.      God  bless  the  two,  say  I,  and  roll  round 
the  joyful  day  when  love  and    its  free    and  beau- 
tiful demonstration  shall  shine  athwart  the  here- 
sies of    conventionality  as  April    suns    dispel  the 
winter's  fog  with  the  splendor  of  their  broadcast 
shining. 


LXII. 

I  was  riding  up-town  in  a  cable  car  not  long 
ago  late  at  night.  The  moon  was  at  its  full  and 
all  the  ugliness  of  the  city  was  shrouded,  like  a 
homely  woman  in  a  bridal  veil  of  shimmering 
lace.  We  skimmed  along  on  a  smooth  and  un- 
obstructed track,  like  a  sloop  with  every  sail  set, 
heading  for  the  open  sea.  There  were  no  idle 
chatterers  aboard,  and  from  the  stalwart  gripman 
at  his  post  of  duty,  to  the  shrinking  little  girl 
passenger,  who  was  half  afraid  and  half  delighted 
to  be  abroad  so  late  alone,  everybody  and  every- 
thing was  in  harmony  with  the  hour  and  scene. 
Suddenly  there  fluttered  into  the  car  a  snowy 
moth,  astray  from  some  flower  garden  in  the 
countrv  and  quite  bewildered  and  lost  in  the  bar- 
ren city.  The  beautiful  creature  fluttered  into  a 
lady's  face  and  she  screamed  and  struggled  as 
though  attacked  by  a  rabid  beast.  "Oh,  kill  it! 
kill  the  horrid    thing,"   she    cried,  while    her  at- 

135 


136  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

tendant  beat  the  air  with  his  cane  and  sought  to 
drive  the  dangerous  interloper  away.  It  rested 
for  a  moment  upon  the  gripman's  cap,  where  it 
looked  like  a  feather  dropped  from  a  wandering 
bird.  At  last  it  settled  upon  the  breast  of  a  lit- 
tle child  sleeping  in  its  mother's  arms.  The 
mother  brushed  it  away  with  her  handkerchief 
as  though  its  presence  brought  defilement.  A 
gentleman  who  was  seated  near  me  caught  the 
bewildered  thing  and  with  a  very  tender  touch 
held  it  for  a  block  or  so  until  we  came  to  one  of 
the  pretty  parks  that  make  our  city  so  attractive. 
Stepping  from  the  car,  he  loosened  his  grasp  up- 
on the  captive  moth  near  a  big  syringa  bush  that 
adorned  the  entrance  way.  He  watched  the 
dainty  white  wings  fliitter  down  into  the  cool 
seclusion  of  the  blossom,  then  turned  and  board- 
ed the  car  and  pursued  his  homeward  way  con- 
scious, let  us  hope,  of  a  very  pretty  and  graceful 
deed  of  kindness  to  a  most  insignificant  claimant 
for  protection  and  succor.  Sentimental,  was  it? 
Well,  God  help  the  world  when  all  sentimental- 
ity of  this  kind  is  gone  out  of  it. 


LXIII. 

How  poor  the  most  of  iis  prove  to  be  when  we 
take  inventory  of  the  soul's  stock!  We  have 
lots  of  bonnets,  and  plenty  of  dresses,  and  no 
end  of  lingerie,  we  women,  but  how  are  we  off 
for  the  things  that  count  when  the  dry  goods 
and  the  furbelows  shall  be  forgotten?  How 
about  love,  of  the  right  kind,  the  love  that  en- 
nobles rather  than  degrades  ;  and  how  about  loy- 
alty, and  patience,  and  truth?  If  one  of  Chica- 
go's big  firms  should  close  its  doors  to  take  in- 
ventory of  stock  in  January  and  find  it  had  noth- 
ing but  the  labels  on  empty  bales  to  account  for, 
its  poverty  would  be  as  nothing  to  the  poverty 
of  the  soul  we  are  going  to  schedule  shortly  be- 
hind the  closed  door  of  the  grave.  What  slaves 
we  are  to  passion;  how  we  hate  one  another  for 
fancied  or  even  actual  slights,  when  we  have 
such  a  little  moment  of  time  in  which  to  indulge 

the  evil  tempers!     How  we  bicker,  and    lie,  and 

137 


138  A  STRING  OF  BEADS 

betray,  the  while  the  messenger  stands  already 
at  the- door  to  bid  us  begone  from  the  scene  of 
our  petty  conflicts.  For  my  part,  the  interest 
we  take  in  things  that  pertain  to  this  perishable 
life,  when  we  are  so  soon  going  where  these  are 
not  to  be;  the  choice  we  make  of  ranks  and  rep- 
utations, shams  and  seemings,  dinners  and  wines, 
jewels  and  fabrics;  the  importance  we  attach  to 
bubbles  that  break  before  we  reach  them;  the 
allurements  that  draw  us  far  from  the  ideals  we 
started  out  to  gain  ;  the  way  we  content  ourselves 
with  the  environments  of  evil  and  forego  forever 
the  voice  that  calls  us  away  to  partake  of  things 
which  shall  be  as  wine  and  honey  to  the  soul, 
frightens  me  ;  startles  me  as  the  sudden  thunder 
of  the  surf  might  startle  one  who  sojourned  by 
an  unseen  sea. 


LXIV. 

If  any  young  woman  who  reads  this  is  contem- 
plating marriage  with  a  wild  and  wayward  man, 
hoping  to  reform  him,  I  want  her  to  stop  right 
here  and  decide  to  give  up  the  contract.  As 
well  might  she  go  out  and  smile  down  a  north- 
west wind  or  expostulate  with  a  cyclone  to  its 
own  undoing.  If  a  man  drinks  to  excess  before 
he  marries,  there  is  no  reason  to  hope  he  will 
learn  moderation  afterward.  If  you  become  his 
wife  with  the  full  knowledge  of  his  habits,  you 
will  have  no  right  to  leave  him  or  forsake  him 
after  marriage  because  of  his  unfortunate  addic- 
tions and  predilections.  Once  having  taken  the 
vows  you  have  no  right  to  refuse  to  pay  them  to 
the  uttermost.  And  the  life  you  will  lead  will 
be  perhaps  a  trifle  less  pleasant  than  the  life  of 
a  parlor  boarder  in  sheol.  ' 


139 


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